


Our Loneliest Days

by Rhysaboy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brief domesticity, Deadlock McCree, Hanzo Shimada is an awkward man, Heavyhanded metaphors, Life on the base, M/M, Mixed McCree, More like trainwrecks, Multi, Navajo McCree, Now featuring literal trainwrecks, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overwatch Hanzo, Pick Up Lines, Self-Sacrifice, Sniper McCree, Suicidal Mentions, Swordsman Hanzo, Violence, Where are Jesse's clothes, mission, mutually assured destruction, reverse au, we may never know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 17:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9667706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhysaboy/pseuds/Rhysaboy
Summary: The yakuza. An American gang. The decision was made to shift resources from one to the other, and that decision has echoed its consequences to the present day. One heir was saved, one delinquent condemned.---“Shimada, Hanzo.”The smile, if anything, widened and sharpened, giving him the distinct impression of being caught by some beast in a corner, whose intention was to play with his prey before striking a killing blow. And still, the words came in the same rolling, sweet tone, suave and sauntering with the next introduction. The hat was dipped by a pinched grip on the brim, and the lopsided smugness stretching the man’s lips did nothing to assuage Hanzo’s unease.“Jesse McCree, at y’er service. How’s about we take this conversation somewhere a little more private?”





	1. Boy with Horses

**Author's Note:**

> So this is borne of my curiosity after seeing someone draw a sniper McCree. I wanted to explore the idea of what would have happened, had the Shimada brothers been saved in place of McCree. Had McCree gone on in his life of crime.
> 
> So here we are. Enjoy.

_ 0300 hours. _

 

_ He was due extraction at 0300 hours, which was long enough away that he could be resting in the crappy motel down the street, but close enough that he’d prefer to let his anger brew over a stiff drink at the equally seedy bar he was in. Just a drink. Or three. Or as many as he could cram past his lips in the next few hours -- he was undecided as of yet, but so long as the barkeep before him kept churning out half-decent  _ cervezas  _ and no one bothered to move him from the rickety stool he’d taken to in the corner of the dive bar, he’d figure it out. He tried to tell himself he shouldn’t be so worked up over this; it wasn’t like he’d never been on an early extraction before. _

 

_ He hadn’t failed an op, no one was getting on his nerves, he was just… bothered. His gut wrenched something awful, trying to anchor him to this shithole of a town just off Route 66, and he knew exactly why.  _

 

_ It was the kid from Deadlock. Gabe first saw him on paper, an opportunity in a folder -- the Deadlock gang had been a problem for some time, but information on some of their personnel caught his eye after a recent raid finding higher tech weapons than usual. The average crowd had been there, the roughed up kids from bad paths that always made him the slightest bit distant, the men with extensive skill sets, the deadly women with something to prove. Nothing that he didn’t see a hundred times a day. There had just been one thing that had caught his eye, that didn’t fit in -- one boy, he should say. The only photo they had of him was a blurry surveillance where you could only see half the boy’s face, a wild look in his eyes like horses felt in the brush, running off on their own. Some too-big cowboy hat draped over the curliest head of hair Gabe had seen on a kid this far south, but other than that it was hard to tell what he even looked like. A beanpole for sure. Dark skin, tanned at the least. Details were blurry and there wasn’t a whole picture to pick apart. Half of him was blocked by another person, whose arm wrapped around him protectively. There was practically no information. They had a call tag for the kid, but no name. A guess at his age, and they knew about the older person with him -- his older brother, one Carlos Garcia. More information on that one. It was funny, though - Deadlock wasn’t particularly subtle -- why so much secrecy about this kid? A protective older brother he could get, but glimpses of the boy in the cowboy hat were reported at every goddamn disaster they heard about. A trail of death and destruction seemed to follow the nameless child. Of the flimsy file on the kid, there was a single sheet of paper depicting an encounter where one of his agents had claimed that the kid had to be possessed. That he’d shot down six men in a second, inhumanly fast, that his eyes had… what was the word? _

 

_ They’d burned.  _

 

_ There were a thousand sad stories out there. Gabe’s heart sure as hell didn’t bleed for every sad sap that found their way into crime, he was too jaded for that. But he had a gut feeling about this kid. It wasn’t the best reasoning for such an odd intrigue, certainly not enough logic was here to justify a solo inquest by the leader of Blackwatch. Jack would berate him for it, citing strategy, mind over gut and all that, but that’s why he was the golden boy and Gabe focused on Blackwatch. He dealt all day with people who seemed one way and then turned around and reversed their entire persona -- he cut through the bullshit, he trusted his gut, and he didn’t back down. This kid, this mop of curly brown hair hidden by the arm of an older protector, the stampede in his eyes, the scuffs of dirt on dark skin blurred by poor photo quality… he was important. Somehow. Someway. _

 

_ Of course, he wasn’t going to get the chance to do anything about it. No, Jack had comm’d him, requesting his help with an urgent extraction in Japan. Something about last-minute recon yielded information of dire consequence regarding a potential leak, a possible acquisition of resources from the Shimada-gumi, another group of importance that Overwatch was working on taking down. It was a good time to make a move; Jack knew that, Gabe knew that, it was as clear as untouched glass. Division and infighting make an empire weak, and whatever was about to go down involved the heirs of the damn place, the future of the Shimada-gumi, and striking now could put them down for good. It was clear who was the bigger target, who would benefit their organization the most if taken down. He wasn’t stupid; he argued against it vehemently, not in any rational sense but because he had a gut feeling. Jack understood his need to follow his gut more than anyone, not out of a shared sensation but rather because he… got Gabriel. But even Gabe had to concede that taking down the Shimadas would be a farther reaching endgame than Deadlock. Besides, Deadlock wasn’t all-powerful. There’d be other times to strike.  _

 

_ It didn’t mean he was a fan of it, though. _

 

_ Something rather close to a sigh escaped his lips, and he tipped back his head to empty his glass down his throat, slapping a bill on the bar and standing to leave. He’d drunk enough to put him into an unsteady sleep for a while. Gathering his light jacket over an arm, Gabe made his way to the entrance of the bar, passing the threshold from the muggy din of noise to the chilling atmosphere in the street, a car whirring by and the sounds of bar chatter dampening once the door swung shut behind him. The night wasn’t exactly silent, faint noises of the not-too-large town relegated to background noise but still omnipresent, pressing gently on his head. He had intended to walk away then, grab his things from the nondescript motel he’d been staying at and head to the rendezvous point, but a low grumble had him swiveling his head, gaze still sharp enough to find the source with pinpoint accuracy. _

 

_ There was a boy. Vaguely familiar, and with a sick twist in his gut he realized it was the nameless kid from the file -- younger in person, apparently. He couldn’t be more than fifteen, honestly. The boy with eyes like horses, spooking from human touch, on edge, waiting for the predator on the edge of the herd to make itself known. He was fumbling with a shitty lighter, pressing the red ignition with a determination loudly announced in pale knuckles. His jaw tensed around the cigarillo in his mouth, a cheap brand that made Gabe’s nose curl from a few feet away. After a moment of watching the struggle, a decision was made in his mind. Without thinking, Gabriel reached in his pocket and held out a silver zippo lighter -- the thing was practically an antique, and the motion seemed to startle the boy, who dropped his cheap, gas station bought lighter from a hand that trembled too much. He looked… spooked. Like finally that predator had been spotted by the herd, and they were ready to bolt; Gabe found himself vaguely surprised. _

 

_ (Later, he’d look back on this moment with a striking regret. He should’ve done something. It’s useless to beat yourself up, but it’s outright idiotic to ignore your gut and as soon as he felt that pull he should’ve done something. Even if he’d grabbed the kid and ran. Hell, even if he’d shot him where he stood.) _

 

_ “You never seen a gift?” _

 

_ “Huh?” _

 

_ The kid’s confusion escaped him in a rather rude sound, face twisting up and hands not moving to accept the offering. A short huff of air slipped by Gabe’s lips and he demonstrated the purpose, rough thumb repeating the familiar motion required to flip open the lighter and produce a healthy flame. He snapped it shut and gestured again, emphasizing the way his hand was extended, as if to say ‘ _ take the damn lighter _ ’. _

 

_ (And really, he should’ve taken the kid. Grabbed him right there and then. Other Deadlock members had been nearby, but most were wasted inside, still yammering on in a bastardization of languages that would have most linguists either disgusted or enamoured. He could’ve taken the kid and left, obeyed the rolling in his gut that warned him not to abandon this cause. This op. Instead, he’d just offered a fucking lighter. A fucking. Lighter.) _

 

_ “Take it. I’ve got another, and you shouldn’t be lighting your cigarillos with a lighter -- not that they’re decent smokes, but I’m not here to question the taste of a boy in a cowboy hat.” _

 

_ The ‘boy’ scrunched up his nose like he was thinking of cussing Gabriel out, or turning tail, but the offering seemed to cancel out the comment about his tastes and while it took a moment for the kid to move, he finally grabbed the sleek metal contraption and lit up, a heavy drag implying his dependence but a resulting cough hinting at his inexperience with the entire charade. He was a newer smoker. There was more information in this short interaction than a hundred of those folders, more tells in the way his hands shook than that blurry picture. And still...  _

 

_ (He had watched a herd of wild horses once, peaceful and serene. A moment could change them into a force to be reckoned with, or a herd on the run, and approaching one could end in your being trampled or the herd’s frantic attempt at escape. That’s what the boy reminded him of right now, but he’d managed not to be bitten nor cause him to bolt.) _

 

_ “... Thanks.” _

 

_ A shrug from Gabe and the boy took another go at the cigarillo, this time handling the smoke much smoother. Not terribly inexperienced then, but not in the right mindset. His fingers twitched, his eyes would sharpen and then glaze over as though changing channels in the back of his head. He was an open book, tearing apart at the spine. Pages stuck together, flipping around with ink faded and spread out like Rorschach paintings. It was a bad look for the boy. _

 

_ “No problem. Does the cowboy have a name?” _

 

_ A hesitation. Did he press too far? Move too quickly? The herd reared its head in dark brown eyes, but just as Gabe began to move again, finally remembering his duties, a quieter voice cut against the night sky, hesitant. The boy with the horses in his eyes is just that -- a boy. Young. Too young for any of this. Gabe stops and looks to the cowboy whose file he’s about close for good. _

 

_ “McCree. Jesse.” _

 

_ “Take care, McCree.” _

 

_ With that, the two parted ways. One had a mission in Japan regarding two young men ready to burn and tear apart the world, the other had a lifetime of mistakes ready to be made. _

  
  


_ \-- _

 

He did not take much pleasure in American alcohol. 

 

The cool touch of the glass against his lips mirrored that of the drink Gabriel Reyes had taken those long years ago, but it was not that time anymore. That was a time before an empire had fallen, a time before the betrayal of a brother, a time before Hanzo Shimada had been ‘Hanzo Shimada, Overwatch Agent’ and before he’d been stopped from what would’ve been the greatest mistake of his life. Time had forgotten everything but the flat beer and the sour taste of butchered booze. He didn’t know much about the operations held along the infamous ‘Route 66’ and surrounding territories; there was no one left alive who recalled the drink had by the late ‘king’ and the exchange between a man with a shady past and a boy with a dim future. 

 

(Well, no one  _ truly  _ alive.)

 

Regardless, Hanzo Shimada found himself in a place demanding a slightly different dress than usual and, not for the first time, found himself wondering why the hell he’d been the one chosen for this particular adventure. Sending a foreigner with a very clear accent and a visible status of ‘minority’ did not seem particularly subtle, especially not for a mission that required a decidedly quieter touch. Though he supposed there was a decent reason for why...

The operations of Blackwatch, even when they were more sanctioned, were characterized by their taboo state and the quieter nature that they necessitated. They were less legal, marring the golden reputation of Overwatch. Winston’s recall had been made with the declaration that they would not be bringing back Overwatch’s dark alter ego. Yet not a month into operations, crew still not quite reinstated, and Hanzo was being asked to do some clandestine reconnaissance. He almost laughed at the hypocrisy of it all before finally he simply acquiesced and shouldered the apparent of their… quieter operations. He was the only one left who had been involved with Blackwatch to such a great extent, through both his brother’s and his involvement in the takedown of the Shimada clan which had involved, on occasion, Blackwatch. Of those left, he was the most familiar with the protocols and methods employed by their former Special Operations unit.

 

So when Overwatch needed to gather their scattered resources, including those not kept in the official databases, who better to chase down leads than their very own sharp-eyed swordsman? External hard drives had a bad habit of being taken in the chaos that was the year leading up to the disbanding of their agency, but far be it from Hanzo to lecture someone on paranoia. Still, when such lengths put him in a dive bar smelling more strongly of body odour than a young men’s change room, he couldn’t help but turn up his nose a little.

Well, a lot. He was perhaps underplaying the smell. 

 

Still, scattered among the old chairs and bawdy voices, raucous laughter like a constant thrum of activity, there were things of use here. No one paid too much mind to the man drinking quietly in his own booth, a corner to his back, no window but a view of the rest of the bar. His half-full glass danced against the table, a shimmering ring of moisture pushed like a track as he adjusted his drink on the heavy wooden table. This place was an anachronism, and for that Hanzo was vaguely thankful -- there was a mixture of old and new, glossy hardwood counter contrasting the paper thin display above the liquor, flashing images of fast-paced sports flickering over the group of men leaning over the scruffed up, faded green of an old billiards table. The conversation was punctuated by the telltale clack of the balls ramming into one another, bouncing off padded borders and occasionally swishing into pockets. There was a lull to the place, like the building had grown into the sounds, fitting around the activity like a familiar outfit, an old yukata, comfortable and well-worn.

 

But many a pair of eyes would sweep over to the billiards table, and luckily for Hanzo that was where tonight’s quarry stood. Crouched over the table, lining up a shot was the one of three, with his allies (friend was too strong a word, and of all people, perhaps Hanzo understood most intimately the dangers of trust in such business as to be found here) on either side of him. They’d been conversing for the better part of an hour at this point, though from what Hanzo could glean, the topic tended to jump from recalling a party not too long ago to the stock of beer available to something about last year’s ‘luminarias’ in ‘the burque’. 

 

Honestly, at that point, Hanzo began to alternatively doubt his lip-reading skills and the proficiency of his marks in the English language. Even after checking an online dictionary, he was no less certain regarding the meaning of the men before him. However, none of the information seemed to be pertinent to his mission objective and so he jotted down a few quick notes in his log and let his observation turn passive. Minutes were spent with the quiet company of a poor, Western beer and the constant thrum of noise, his senses attuned to key phrases and movements. One such movement seemed to wrench him out of his thoughts as the hands stretched to the top of the clock, both hour and minute hands lingering between the eleven and twelve. Enough time had passed that the group he was planning on tailing was heading out. He couldn’t be certain, but hopefully this would be the night they headed to where his real target was, a man by the name of Ace Rodriguez (at least, that’s what he went by -- his name was along the lines of Jason Rodriguez, but most of the men called him ‘Ace’ due to his sharpshooting skills. There was substantial evidence suggesting that he had possession of a hard drive formerly belonging to Blackwatch, detailing a few of their records kept isolated from the main databases. Hanzo could understand the need for discretion, but in the rather chaotic decline of Overwatch, more than a few items of importance were taken and sold off to the highest bidder. The drive that Rodriguez had could be potentially secured still, and reacquisition was priority number one. Hanzo was given a great deal of freedom on this operation, which was understandable given his history with the agency. He’d proved himself time and time again, years of missions and operations with the ‘heroic’ agency, and so under Winston’s somewhat haphazard leadership, the elder Shimada had been sent off to New Mexico to track down one of the stolen drives. That they knew at all where to find any was a miracle in itself, so Hanzo didn’t complain about the lack of resources he was equipped with on the attempt to retrieve the drive. 

 

_ Just follow the departing fools to wherever they end up,  _ he barely had to think the thought before he was standing and ready to leave.

 

Given the way that his three idiots seemed to laugh among themselves, oblivious to the dark gaze trained on them, he was satisfied with his daisho and essentials. The weight of his swords against his back (not his preferred spot but far more subtle than at his hip) required an adjustment of his stance, and though he was merely tailing the three men leaving the bar, he was nothing if not prepared. 

 

Well, prepared and overfocused.

 

A body bumped into his own, and a scowling Hanzo tilted up his head to fix a rather shaggy looking man with a look that could kill. He had no time to stop and inspire some respect in the pushy… cowboy, if the hat was anything to go by, dipped down to obscure the face of the one he’d had to push past. It was more important that he follow the trail of the departed men. 

 

The night air cooled the back of his throat, not so much that he was surprised, but the way the dry air scraped the back of his throat seemed to signal the transition from indoors to out, the desert sky faintly dotted with bright stars. It wasn’t a particularly large town they were in, and the streets were relatively quiet. A car passed by and across the street a group of teens milled about the entrance to a restaurant, in various states of inebriation. Hanzo swept his gaze over the street before him, catching the movement of a pair of jeans, the flash of a white t-shirt, the telltale walk of one of the three men he’d been watching for the evening. His steps quickened, metal lined soles silent as he following the flash of white around the corner, slipping into a narrow spot between the liquor store and a closed boutique. Already, he was recalling the layout of the street -- the direction of juxtaposing streets, entrances and exits. He’d pause a moment, following the trail of his quarry from a further distance, slip past the corner of the alleyway entrance; a routine tail. It was familiar, nothing he hadn’t done a hundred times.

 

The immediate disappearance of his tail, of course, veered the routine far off track from “normal” to “highly suspicious”. The alleyway was empty but for the still figure before him, one of the men he’d meant to be tailing stood with his gun drawn, staring down the barrel, a smirk on his stubbly face. What a smug look… Hanzo’s hand found the handle of his blade before a word could leave the other man’s mouth. 

 

“You think we wouldn’t fuckin’ notice the squint followin’ us? We ain’t stupid.”

 

If he weren’t sneaking a glance behind himself, Hanzo would’ve rolled his eyes, at both the apparent slur and the claim of intelligence. The other two men were stepping into the alley behind him, guns not yet drawn -- his priority was the gunman before him. He spat off to the side, something like sweat and tobacco offending Hanzo’s nose, and before his opponent could shoot off his mouth once more, Hanzo was in motion. A fluid motion had his katana unsheathed, and the sharp shink of metal was echoed only by a startled cry, the shocked screech of a man who has just realized what agony is truly capable of existing in such a short amount of time. The gun fell to the ground, still clutched in a hand now severed from the man’s body, and in the same motion that had separated flesh and bone Hanzo moved behind the man in front of him. Two shots fired off, but by stepping behind the man with the makeshift amputation, he was shielded from their lethal touch, two shocks hitting his new human blockade. There was another figure at the entrance of the alleyway, gun leveled towards Hanzo and the world seemed to slow. The recoil of the gun had it tilting back, and with a slick motion, Hanzo slit the first man’s throat, wasting no time in rushing forth and thrusting through the centre of the shooter’s torso. Two down, one to --

 

Bang. 

 

The third gunshot came from behind him, and Hanzo expected the dull shock of metal followed by a roar of pain, realizing with a start that he’d lost track of the third man. Imbecile, simple-minded fool; such a simple thing to remember, something a child could be tasked with.

 

There was no pain. And, in fact, no sensation at all. More shocked by the painless outcome (surely the man did not miss), Hanzo pulled free the blue-tinted blade, turning sharply to determine the cause of this unusual turn of events. Towards a small outcropping of disposal bins, the third man stood, knees slightly bent, with his hands flailing helplessly at a garish blade, sprouting from his throat. Even before he slumped limply to the ground, it was possible to see the outline of a rather outlandish form behind him, but clearing the way made it much easier to reveal Hanzo’s apparent ‘saviour’. A taller man, with a swatch of red fabric draped over his shoulders, an oddly familiar hat tilted on his head and adjusted with the recently retracted blade (which appeared to be a weapon the size of Hanzo’s forearm, brutal and partially serrated). It took no time for a scowl to cross Hanzo’s face, both at the realization of his embarrassing situation and the recognition of what could only be described as the cowboy as the same he’d bumped into not fifteen minutes prior. His proximity and timing implied one of two things. 

 

“Y’know, most people’d’ve said a sort of ‘thank ye’ by now.”

 

One, the man with the rumbling voice before him had excellent luck and a selflessness that led him to commit murder and proceed to wipe off the blood of a stranger on his pant leg without a second thought and nary a flinch. Or, two, (which was the far more likely option as Hanzo’s stoicism was met with a smirk that simply reeked of danger)

 

“Though I s’pose y’er not really most people, are ya, Overwatch?”

 

It seemed Hanzo Shimada had a tail of his own. And now that he’d seen him, he wondered how the cowboy had ever gone under his radar, standing at an imposing figure with an outfit that was wholly committed to the western showmanship, even when compared to his American compatriots. His entire presence was very… loud, stance purposeful, shoulders set wide and the grin on his bearded face was made to look all the more wicked by the way long brown locks curled, unruly and framing his dusty, dark face. If Hanzo wasn’t quickly assessing the most efficient way to slit his throat from six steps away, perhaps he’d have been able to appreciate the certain rugged appeal to the man.

 

As it was, he preferred to identify the best way to move closer and dispose of the man who clearly knew too much. Perhaps a mild distraction…

“Am I to be impressed by American theatrics and your identification of an allegiance? That is no tall order, even for a man such as yourself.”

 

A step closer and the cowboy did not flinch. The katana was held outwards at an angle, Hanzo’s words biting, the way he spat out ‘man such as yourself’ reminiscent of a cuss, like the words pained him to speak.

 

“Well, I’m guessing that’s not quite enough to impress ya, innit? Maybe somethin’ a bit more interestin’ then?”

 

He was smug. Incredibly so. Hanzo looked forwards to wiping the look off his face. Another step.

 

“You’ve nothing that would interest me, cowboy.”

 

Another. One more and he could lunge the rest, his casual strides turned to action.

 

“I’ve got Rodriguez.” 

 

Oh. That was enough to give Hanzo pause -- with his targets dead, he was put behind on tracing the whereabouts of his target, something that he didn’t doubt that the large figure before him was fully aware of that. In a sense, he was being played, and in another he was… curious. He could have walked away from this encounter with a few more bullet wounds rather than unscathed as he was, and that was due in part to the walking anachronism before him.

 

“Hm. I’m listening.”

 

That seemed to please the American, whose grin grew at the corners, reminiscent of a grinning coyote, a scavenger pleased with the scraps he’s found (for truly, Hanzo had offered nothing but to listen, and it stirred something pretentious to see this man read more into it than necessary). 

 

“In that case, might I know the name of the fella I’m ‘bout to work with?”

 

The rumble was polite but brusque, a southern drawl that would’ve been sweet if not for the circumstances, the quiet whisper of the man’s gaudy blade as it slipped into its leather sheath, momentarily disturbing the other straps and fastenings (he counted a minimum of two other blades readily available, an empty holster, and the outline of a rifle in the dark). A curl in his lip flashed the southern man, sure to express Hanzo’s distaste for the situation as a whole.

 

“I never agreed to cooperate with you, merely refrain from slicing your throat while you explain.”

 

A laugh, sudden and raucous, broke the moment of silence following Hanzo’s words and if he was a string wound as tightly as he felt, he’d have snapped by now. Still, the scruffy man simply looped his thumbs through his belt loops and the tense Shimada acquiesced. His blade was sheathed, and he gave a long-suffering sigh, nose wrinkling in response to the test of patience that seemed to be stretching these moments under faint yellow lights to an eternity before this stranger.

 

“Shimada, Hanzo.”

 

The smile, if anything, widened and sharpened, giving him the distinct impression of being caught by some beast in a corner, whose intention was to play with his prey before striking a killing blow. And still, the words came in the same rolling, sweet tone, suave and sauntering with the next introduction. The hat was dipped by a pinched grip on the brim, and the lopsided smugness stretching the man’s lips did nothing to assuage Hanzo’s unease.

 

“Jesse McCree, at y’er service. How’s about we take this conversation somewhere a little more private?”

 

A coyote looked at him with the eyes of a man. Hanzo blinked and he was leading the cowboy to his motel, suspicion not quite winning the battle against curiosity and the need to find his target.

  
_ And thus we become the fool being followed,  _ chided the voice in his head, and though his knuckles lightened with strain, he did not show his doubt before the stranger. Yet he hadn’t the slightest doubt that this was going to quickly become a situation out of hand.


	2. Atlas Shrugged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's no hero. He's a man who'd kill for a gun, kill for a beer, kill for a moment's peace. He's a man whose life is a constant balancing act, a karmic chaos. This doesn't appeal to Hanzo.  
> Not at all.
> 
> ... Dammit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for foul language and graphic violence.  
> Considerably graphic violence.
> 
> Still going slowly of course. If you'd like occasional updates on how I'm writing, what I'm doing, sometimes some drabbles/poems, etc., find me on Tumblr at brokewriterboy.tumblr.com
> 
> Translations at the end.

Jesse McCree was looking at a man who could curdle milk with a look.

 

Boots propped up on the short table before him, the outlaw crossed his arms and gave off an aura of nonchalance, an unlit cigarillo hanging from his lips. He was still, the only movement he gave off the slow rise and fall of his chest as his brown eyes swept about the motel room. This shithole town had one place to stay and for some reason, the ramshackle room with the half-broken chair and dusty bed seemed to only heighten the… _regality_ of the man before him.

 

Sure, Jesse’d seen a good looking man or two. Had even slept with a couple, here and there, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t drag his eyes across the figure leaning against the corner of the wall, nearest the door. Good spot -- McCree’s was better. His back to a corner, window a step to his right. Still, he was able to watch all parts and all things with equal interest. Not many belongings pointed towards a short trip, the rigid way that the swordsman before him stood, half-turned away as he spoke tersely into a communication device subtle enough even _he_ had had troubles spotting it at first (at first, being the key turn of phrase -- nothing tended to go completely unnoticed). There were a few things that he couldn’t help but note despite their lack of help in reading his newfound ‘ally’. The way his hair was tied back with discipline. The relative age of the piercings in his face (a nose bridge, really?). The few signs of rebellion left behind after years spent cooling off.

 

 _Interesting_ , he couldn’t help but think, rolling the spongy filter of his smoke in his mouth.

 

As if summoned by the thought, Hanzo snapped a farewell to whomever spoke on the other side of the comm and turned to face Jesse as though he were a ragged stray pissing on the carpet. Any second now and that disapproving tone would spark up again, and --

 

“Have you nothing to do but gawk?”

 

\-- Jesse felt a pull of sorts, and his lips quirked into the lazy, controlled smile he was so used to presenting as part of his get-up. _Interesting indeed._

 

“Well, ain’t every day somethin’ as pretty as yourself walks into a town like this. And with such timing.”

 

It was a play for more information, a thinly veiled one, and the Shimada picked up on it immediately with a twist of his upturned nose. There was no room for nonsense in this one, and the dignified scoff was enough to make something close to a challenge brew in McCree’s mind, hot coals stoked by the way that the near-stranger looked at him.

 

“You already mentioned my affiliation. I would know how you identified me.”

 

Was the man before him nervous? If so, he gave no sign of being so, muscles tight and expression locked down. They were going back and forth in a sense, each man testing the merit of the other, and the tension was thick enough to -- _enough with the cliches, burro,_ cued the voice in the back of his head, and with a smooth motion, a familiar weight was in his hand, a flame licking the edge of his cigarillo much to his host’s dismay.

 

“Seen your face. Lots of bounties pass by these days -- and s’hard not to recognize an Overwatch agent. ‘Sides, not a lot of interest in these parts unless you’re after a select few.”

 

He seemed displeased with the answer, watching a whorl of smoke waving lazily before Jesse’s face, tobacco fumes coiling into an unkempt beard, trapping itself under the brim of the hat perched atop his head.

 

“And how do you know it’s not _you_ I’m after.”

 

“Aw, darlin’, we both know that ain’t the case.”

 

He winked, and the indignation in the man leaning against the wall seemed to simmer dangerously beneath a too-tight lid. _Can’t be too healthy keeping that all bottled up,_ he mused, holding back a snicker at his own humour. Still, the silence seemed only encouraged by his new ‘friend’, so McCree took it upon himself to fill it.

 

“Only half a dozen people worth kicking up a row for on the side o’the ABQ, darlin'. Two in this town: Rodriguez and yours truly.” Something dangerously close to a snort escaped the Shimada’s nose and despite his desire to rile him up, McCree continued with a flourish. “And since y’ain’t stuck me with one of them pretty swords, and y’didn’t know my face right off the bat there, I’m assuming you’re here for Rodriguez.”

 

There was a smugness to the way he smiled, a stretch of self-importance making it easier to bare the distaste dished out to him in spoonfuls by the dark glare of the (granted, not bad looking) man before him. Jesse could feel his words being weighed, and the reply that showed up after a moment was no less crisp.

 

“Skip to the part of this exchange that inspired my supervisor to encourage me to work with you, _temae_?”

 

Now, Japanese was not a strong suit of Jesse McCree, more or less native New Mexican, but the way the word was tossed gave it a sense like he was being insulted. Regardless, a pull of smoke into his lungs gave him the upper ground here, his own emotional calm contrasting the tightness of the Shimada before him.

 

“Easy. One Jesse McCree, known for a few things, one o’which being a bit of knowledge regarding those who pass through my neck o’the woods. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had a dealing with Overwatch. Figure s’long as you get Rodriguez, doesn’t rightly matter, dunnit?”

 

There comes a time when one must evaluate those around them. Jesse McCree didn’t make it to thirty-seven by being oblivious to the world, and he wasn’t about to lose himself in the act he had. It was easy enough to prop up your feet, lean back, and grin like the world was doing you a favour, but to make it count you had to keep on your toes. Metaphorically, and all that. So far, he’d found this Hanzo character to be lacking in personality what he attempted to compensate for in looks, and though he was obviously capable of some thought, McCree had yet to figure out how much. A smart man would ask the right question.

 

 _So, Shimada_ , rumbled another of the voices in his head, slow and curious like a rattler in the shade, _just how smart are you?_

 

“And you get what, exactly, out of this arrangement?”

 

A rumbled hum escaped his throat and Jesse McCree blew smoke as far as he could across the room, watching with something akin to intrigue as it scattered across the man’s impassive features.

 

“Well, guess you’ll just have to find out.”

  


\---

 

_“Amà?”_

 

_“Yes, baby?”_

 

_A boy held the hand of his mother, face scrunched up as dust tickled his lip. The house was quiet -- stepfather and brothers asleep, none awake at this hour save for the young boy and his mother. He traced the patterns on her hand, the designs of scars from years of work, some fresher cuts from errant knives. His mother does not have smooth hands. They are rough, and one day his will be too._

 

_Brown eyes seek their match, the boy’s gaze reflected in his mother’s; one in the same. They are the same hue, the same air, but where his are wide and young, hers are weary in a way that he will not understand for years to come._

 

_“Will you wait for the sun to rise with me?”_

 

_“Of course, Yiska.”_

 

_A boy held the hand of his mother, and listened to her whisper in the language of her ancestors, the one that the man she married hated to hear. He listened to stories of heroic twins and horses, of coyotes and witches. She called him by a name he’d go on to abandon, and he loved her for it._

 

\---

 

“Watch y’er left there, darlin’.”

 

 _Bang._ The short thunder of a bullet sounded after it had hit, and Hanzo was briefly aware of the body on his left that had dropped to the ground. His sword was halfway through a stroke, his stance adjusting so that he could move onwards, and despite the fact that having a sniper watching his movements kept him safer and kept the mission smoother, he snapped a tense retort over the comms they’d set up between McCree and himself.

 

“I could’ve handled that.”

 

“‘Course y’could’ve. On your right.”

 

The nonchalance with which the cowboy spoke, with his low voice rumbling into Hanzo’s ear in an almost intimate matter, was enough to place him rather unfortunately on edge. Usually an operation like this was simple -- had he been working with anyone else, it would’ve been a snap to fetch the drives allegedly held by Rodriguez’ company. However, with the presence of one Jesse McCree, he found himself… distracted. To an extent. And in a completely professional manner.

 

And if the relaxed warning made him feel the slightest bit of a chill, it certainly didn’t show as a knife slipped in between the ribs of a goon who’d let him get too close.

 

“Hm.”

 

The last of the riffraff fell as the cowboy hummed over the comms -- all three dead. Not all operations were as _thorough_ as this, but Hanzo had found his new ally to prefer this method, and he wasn’t averse to taking out those who were far too aggressive either. _Three here and the two left tied up in the truck on the corner makes five… how many does this Rodriguez surround himself with?_

 

“Shouldn’t be too many more. Maybe six in the main house -- four armed, two near weapons.”

 

As though he’d read his mind. The appraising tone in his ear was gone, and without missing a beat McCree had shifted from warm drawl to careful, considerate tactician. It was a change in gears that Hanzo almost missed due to its subtlety. As he crept towards the house, he could hear the telltale shift of fabric on the other side of the line suggesting that McCree was changing positions, and he slipped in between the target building and the next. He’d had his doubts about moving in here -- it was risky, given the location and the occupants of the building.

  


_“Rodriguez spends most of his time at his girlfriend’s house when he’s not working. Your friends from the alley should’ve gone back there after they took care of you, so they’ll know something's up.”_

 

_The cowboy spoke easily, tapping his cigarillo to let off the ash out the ajar window. Hanzo wrinkled his nose again and found himself watching the fluid motion as one watches animals in the zoo -- he tried to tamp down his misplaced interest before it got in the way._

 

_“And so your suggestion involves us going towards what is most likely a trap? In a populated area, nonetheless?”_

 

_There it was again, that smile; like he was baring his teeth against the world._

 

 _“Eh, no. My suggestion involves_ you _going towards what is most likely a trap.”_

  


Hanzo crouched beside a window, waiting for the signal to head into the house. He wasn’t sure he trusted McCree (no, that wasn’t right -- he trusted him about as far as he could throw him and the American wasn’t exactly a lightweight) but the plan made… sense. It was simplistic to the point of idiocy and then back into reasonable again, so he had acquiesced. And now, he waited. His _katana_ was drawn, the gold and blue _menuki_ visible from the corner of his eyes, a constant reminder of the creatures that lay under his skin. This was no place for them. There would be no need to unleash dragons upon this place, no need to overcomplicate the mission with such a dangerous task. In truth, he hadn’t even considered them -- the only reason the _menuki_ seemed to mock him was due to the restlessness of the beasts, their constant movement after meeting the cowboy.

 

_How odd._

 

“Now.”

 

The word broke him from his reverie and glass caved before him as he crashed in through the window. His targets were clear -- immediately to his right sat a man who hadn’t the chance the wake up before the handle of a blade impacted his skull and left him with a much longer nap than he’d likely intended. Across the room was a folding table, and already the four persons remaining were in motion. Hanzo’s strides took him one, two steps to the right, a bullet embedding itself in the wall where he’d been. The quick-drawing woman was dispatched quickly with a diagonal cut from hip to collarbone. In the same fluid motion he launched a kick and struck under the chin of a man who was halfway through standing from the table, card game forgotten, chips scattering across the floor as the kick knocked him into the table and out cold onto the ground. The remaining woman ran screeching for the back door, and the movement was enough to draw Hanzo’s gaze. A foolish mistake.

 

A gun raised towards the swordsman’s head.

 

A bullet cut through the air.

 

And the gun clattered to the ground.

 

Hanzo waited for searing pain and realised, a moment later, that the last opponent was clutching his bleeding wrist, a hole punched clear through the limb and the gun lying, forgotten, to the side. A readjustment, and his sword sliced through the air, aiming to cut the man’s throat. Before he had nicked the skin of the man, another shot pushed through the knee of his opponent, and the sword swung high, the man falling to the ground with another agonised wail. As agitation set in, the comm came to live with a crackle.

 

“Sorry ‘bout that partner. This one’s yer man, Rodriguez.”

 

“And you wish him alive for _what_ reason?”

 

 _Sententious,_ Hanzo would admit to himself of his own tone, coming off far harsher than he intended. Yet his blade remained stayed, lip curling at the sight of the man ( _Rodriguez, whom you did not recognise, and therefore you’ve gone into this far underprepared_ ) trying to crawl with a shot wrist and knee towards the gun left to his side. It was more pitiful than worrying, and he lowered his _katana_ as the man inched even closer to the gun he’d dropped (a surprisingly old specimen, out of place among clip-based arms which were far more accurate and accessible) dropping what Hanzo could only guess were Spanish curses. Whatever the case, he turned to face McCree as the sniper entered through the back door. He still wore that too-wide grin and sauntered into the room with his rifle holstered on his back, the spurs on his boots jingling with every step. For a moment, Hanzo wasn’t sure he would have his question answered, until that drawl came tumbling at a relaxed pace, accent thicker than during the thick of the job.

 

“So’s I can do this.”

 

The next movement was quick enough that Hanzo struggled to track it, the flick of a foot one second, the antiquated gun in McCree’s hand the next. All signs of pleasantness and courtesy were gone and Hanzo felt his blood chill at the intensity of the newfound stoicism on McCree’s face. The gun pointed down towards Rodriguez, who’d all but frozen where he had crawled, blood sluggish in its escape from his clutched wounds.

 

“ _¿Ahora que?_ ”

 

Spat Rodriguez, and the chuckle that left McCree was nothing short of grating. The desert heat from outside seemed to sink into the Shimada’s bones, his mouth drying and air in his lungs stilling. The man before him had changed so entirely, and Hanzo tightened his grip on his sword, even as McCree spoke flatly, Spanish as natural off his tongue as English.

 

“ _Ahora le mato_.”

 

Now it was Rodriguez’ turn to laugh, sounding as though he was just as dry-mouthed as Hanzo felt.

 

“ _Tienes los d_ _ías contados, Tuerto_ _.”_

 

The words were spat at McCree, quite literally, but the answer came in the form of a bullet. The revolver didn’t budge, the trigger squeezed and the shot let off into the upturned face of Rodriguez. The sick crack of a skull, the splattering of grey matter first from the exit wound and then on the floor as his corpse slumped forwards and left a growing stain on the ground.

 

“That was…”

 

Hanzo found himself unable to finish the sentence, the intense heat waning slightly but a sheen of sweat leaving him… uncomfortable. McCree spent a moment more looking at Rodriguez before he spun the gun and holstered it, hand dropped to his side. _And yet you’ve not sheathed your own blade._ The battle was over and yet he couldn’t imagine putting away his weapon. Not yet. Not when the man who’d propped his feet up, who’d thrown out niceties as casually as one runs a hand through their hair, stood staring at a dead man with an intensity that made the sun outside seem welcoming.

 

_Take a breath, Hanzo. Composure._

 

“What did he say?”

 

The tension did not give way, and Hanzo watched his ‘ally’s’ shoulders tighten towards his spine. There was no reading the stony face that stared down at Rodriguez.

 

“ _What did he say?”_

 

Again, the question, and Hanzo’s voice hardened against the lack of a response. Finally, after a what seemed a century of waiting for someone to make a move, McCree dropped his shoulders and reached into a pocket, lighting a cigarillo as it hung from chapped lips.

 

“Answer me!”

 

“Ain’t nothin’ o’importance,” gravel churned in the throat of the man whose eyes began to cloud alarmingly quickly. Hanzo didn’t want to take that as an answer, didn’t want to leave the situation as it was. There was a quick deflation of the tense atmosphere and a slump in the shoulders of the man he’d been ready to defend himself against moments before. Apparently, his silence and the presence of his blade still between them was enough to motivate McCree to elaborate.

“The man took m’gun. Ain’t really use it no more, on account o’it bein’ a little too short range for my comfort, but... “

 

This was not information easily parted with, by the sound of it. A moment passed of neither words nor actions before Hanzo sheathed his blade with a smooth motion, letting go of a breath he’d been unaware he was holding. Eventually, McCree shrugged and knelt beside the body, hand moving to frisk the hips of the late Rodriguez.

 

“ _What_ are you doing?”

 

Hanzo felt the hairs on the back of neck rise. He was not put off by gore or bodies, but neither did he feel the overwhelming urge to put his _hands_ on them.

 

“Figured you’d want this, darlin’.”

 

A small device, the size of a fingernail, launched in an arc for Hanzo to catch. One look at it confirmed that it was the drive Overwatch was seeking: the sleek black was interrupted by the matte finish of an Overwatch logo, the silver etchings of the small device reading “3 terabyte capacity”, which was remarkably…

 

“Small.”

 

“I beg y’er pardon?”

 

“How could anything of importance be stored on three terabytes alone?”

 

This wasn’t an essential question, and later Hanzo would realise that he was pushing for conversation in an unnaturally quiet room. Odd for him, but there was an unsettled air about his companion that set him on edge when thinking back to the casual conversations held throughout the last 24 hours.

 

“Huh. Well, figure if you keep things encrypted, it’d be a bit bigger. But if’n you’ve got one drive there and we’re assumin’ Overwatch ain’t so stupid to leave things open fer the taking, then I’d be of the mind that it’s a dummy. Or a track.”

 

That piqued Hanzo’s attention, and there was the slight return of ease that came when the cowboy began to speak in a more familiar tone.

 

“A track?”

 

“Well, sure. Y’ain’t gotta look twice at me t’know I ain’t got much in tech skills, but I know a thing or two about less-than-upright organisations. That there is a Blackwatch drive; my guess’s that it’s a track of other locations, bigger data dumps. Leaves lots of room for encryption.”

 

Disregarding the downplay of his apparently very pertinent knowledge, what the man said made… far too much sense. Hanzo had had very few dealings with Blackwatch, but he’d worked with them on a few occasions. He was rather surprised, however, to hear _McCree_ bring up the supposedly underground organisation.

 

“... _nzo… re … ?”_

 

The sudden sound startled him, and his fingers slipped towards his _kogotana,_ the small utility knife in his sheath. McCree seemed to not hear what he heard, and a look, unreadable, passed over his face. However, before Hanzo could explain his sudden silence, the sound came again.

 

“ _Agent… report?”_

 

The comm. Embarrassment at his ignorance put aside momentarily, he adjusting the comm button, the magnetic connection having twisted while he was fighting. _Should have been more aware of your movement,_ he chastised himself, and finally, the signal came in clear.

 

“Agent Hanzo, report in.”

 

Finally, Winston’s voice was clear, and he cleared his throat before responding.

 

“Present. Drive is recovered.”

 

McCree gave a thumbs-up motion as if he understand completely what was going on now, relaxing his stance immediately. He resumed his search of the bodies still strewn about messily. Before he moved on to another corpse, he mouthed ‘ _two minutes, police_ ’.

 

“Excellent work! And Rodriguez?”

 

Hanzo hesitated for a moment, before responding.

 

“Eliminated. The price of our, ahem, helping hand.”

“Ah. I see.”

 

Was that a disappointment? A surprise? Certainly, the scientist seemed.less than pleased, but rather than allow Hanzo to make a further explanation (and somehow, though he had no fodder with which to do so, he had the sudden urge to defend the man’s actions) he spoke once more.

 

“Regardless! You’ve now seen him in action, and well, I didn’t just insist on your working with him for the local touch alone, Agent Shimada. We were considering extending an offer of recruitment to Mr. McCree, some time ago. It was rather fortunate that you happened upon him, and in light of the proper evaluation tools, well…”

 

“You thought _I_ would be an alternative evaluator.”

 

McCree was kneeling behind the table and raised two fingers above it. Two minutes left.

 

“Ah, well,” began Winston, as though a little embarrassed about his plan. It wasn’t necessarily a bad plan, but Hanzo was less-than-pleased about not being informed about the plan (and it had nothing to do with his increasing unease around McCree).

 

“Well, would you like to hear my evaluation of one Jesse McCree?”

 

As Winston made a disbelieving sound on the other end, a very baffled McCree stood up suddenly from behind the table, a half-drunk beer in one hand, his still-burning cigarillo hanging limply from his open mouth. Nothing of the harsh executioner of before stood before him. Instead, a rather ruffled looking cowboy gawked at him as though waiting to be chastised.

 

“I would highly recommend recruiting Jesse McCree for Overwatch’s Recall Initiative.”

 

He hadn’t expected those words to come from his mouth. Winston seemed to give a proud _guffaw_ on the other end, but whatever more he had to say was lost to the sudden twist of… betrayal? A flash of hostility stretched across McCree’s face, his lips thinning, pressed tight under knit brows. Whatever he was doing seemed to be forgotten, as the cowboy sniper stormed past Hanzo and into the backyard, slamming the door behind him hard enough to have the screen panels bounce off the frame again. More than a little confused, Hanzo paused a moment, taking the time to excuse himself from the conversation with Winston to follow after the retreating cowboy.

 

“ _De nada, señora, de nada.”_

 

_“Oh, señor, señor, no sabes, no sabes.”_

 

Expecting McCree alone, Hanzo was rather surprised to find the woman from the shootout on her knees in the yard. His first thought was to draw his weapon again, but he paused when he realized that McCree knelt beside her, his hand cupping her shoulder as she wept openly into her hands. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this.

 

“... McCree.”

 

He felt it was only polite to let the two know he was there, but the woman gave a horrified scream as she recognized the swordsman from earlier, and… perhaps he should have been more cognizant of his previous experience with the woman and her companions.

 

“ _La espada! Señor, l-la espada, él --”_

 

“ _¡Cálmate! Señora, por favor, él es mi compa.”_

 

McCree spoke just as quickly as the frantic woman, but she clung to every word he spoke (and Hanzo refused to consider the fact that he was also calmed slightly by the deep tones that he had suspected would greet him in anger once he stepped outside) and he turned to face Hanzo without a trace of the glare he’d worn just moments previous.

 

“Hey darlin’? Y’ain’t too scary, just a guy here t’help take some bad guys down a peg or two. Say 'howdy'.”

 

Belatedly, he realized he was supposed to reply, and he cleared his throat, gloved hand twitching in a small wave, stiffer and more awkward than he’d have preferred. Still, the woman seemed sated by his attempts at looking less like a man covered in the blood of her previous company.

 

“He’s -- he helped to kill Rodriguez?”

 

“That’s right miss,” McCree was treading carefully now, not lying but not unsure how she’d react. He kept one hand on her shoulder, comforting but a moment away from restraining. Yet the woman raised her chin, stiffening her bottom lip and responding in the strongest tone she could manage.

 

“Good. He is _el abusador, el ojete -- “_

 

Though Hanzo couldn’t understand the response, he at least understood he was not despised by the woman, he was… surprisingly pleased about the approval he received from her. How odd. McCree was speaking again, the two of them too quick for Hanzo to pick up on much. However, soon the two rose, the woman patting McCree’s hand and nodding, eyes glistening with tears. He nodded with a humble smile, his hat held to his chest as he lowered his head to better speak with the incredibly short woman. Hanzo was startled to be focused on again by the woman, who took two steps forwards in order to eye him and nod in approval.

 

“I thank you, sir. I do not like guns, I do not like drugs. This is my house, and he has no place here anymore, none. I thank you, sir, many thanks.”

 

Hanzo’s response died in his throat with something alarmingly close to a squeak, so he settled on a nod and a stout resolve to ignore the red on his own face as McCree smirked at him, hat slowly replaced on his head.

 

With a few last words exchanged with McCree, the woman marched back towards the house, pulling her hair up into a ponytail as though ready to work.

 

The door closed.

 

The moment it did, McCree’s face fell and Hanzo couldn’t help but feel as though he was the one responsible for such a stoic expression on the man’s face.

 

For a moment, neither spoke.

 

Then, lighting another cigarillo, McCree decided to break the silence.

 

“I can’t work for Overwatch.”

 

“Oh?”

 

A cowboy scuffed the dirt and Hanzo said nothing more. The silence crawled along his skin, a restlessness settling in his bones. As much as he wanted to speak, he couldn’t -- the cowboy would have to respond first.

 

“I ain’t Overwatch material. That’s fancy-ass hero shit, that’s for white hats and that ain’t me partner. Y’all’re fighting for shit what I can’t even begin to comprehend, and don’t pretend that y’don’t just want me ‘cause you’re up shit creek without a paddle and need supplies, or -- another hired gun or some shit. I ain’t Overwatch. I ain’t no hero.”

 

With that rant done, McCree took another drag off his cigarillo and chugged from the beer he’d grabbed from inside. He sat on the back step, wood creaking under him as he settled. Apparently, he was unconcerned about the coming law enforcement, eyes distant again.

 

Well. That was the tip of an iceberg, or so Hanzo assumed. The tension in the shoulders was there again (the restlessness got worse as he noticed the tension there, the hunched up look of a man trying to shut out the world) and so, a decision was made. Carefully, Hanzo folded his legs beneath him, settling close enough to the rougher man to be in his space, without touching.

 

“You believe Overwatch is comprised of heroes,” his words were met with a hesitant nod from McCree.

 

“Well, duh.”

 

“And you believe that these ‘heroes’ are nothing like you?”

 

Here, the sniper simply shrugged, eyes flicking away in something akin to shame. He was less angry now, more… ashamed. Once more he had the look of a big man feeling far too small, and Hanzo felt something curl in his gut at the sight, a discomfort he wasn’t keen on. Before he realized he’d moved, his hand was on McCree’s shoulder, the thick serape doing little to disguise the thick muscle below it. There was a wariness in McCree’s eyes but he did not pull away.

 

(It was funny how familiar the look in those eyes was, as though reflected from his own in the years past, lightened but a few shades)

 

“Winston is addicted to peanut butter.”

 

It seemed neither of them had expected that to be the next thing Hanzo was going to say, but he went on regardless.

 

“‘Pharah’ once accidentally set off a rocket in her own room and punched a hole into the hallway. ‘Tracer’ is an excitable younger British girl who sometimes forgets that people cannot speak at the speed of light. Hana, or D.va, plays video games until someone forcibly unplugs her. Zarya still struggles with treating omnics like people.”

 

“Aw hell, that ain’t the same thi -- “

 

A finger indicated Hanzo’s desire to go uninterrupted, and McCree’s mouth snapped shut.

 

“I recall Soldier 76 running into not one, but two walls on a mission because he was distracted by a familiar song. Reinhardt once tried to dance and accidentally punched a hole in a wall. Zenyatta would sooner pick flowers than engage in combat, and Mei falls asleep at any given moment, but will wake up immediately if there is a cat, despite being allergic to them.”

 

Something boiled under McCree’s skin, and he finally snapped at Hanzo, standing up and stepping away as though the hand on his shoulder suddenly burned. Following suit, Hanzo rose at a steady pace, listening to the words the sniper had to offer.

 

“It ain’t the same thang! Are you trying to compare the shit that I gotta do just to survive to fuckin’... domestic life? The hell’re you tryna do Shimada?!”

 

He paused long enough to let McCree catch his breath, long enough to let the red subside from his vision, those eyes like a challenge, chin held high like a proud horse, ready to bite and buck its way out.

 

“Make you understand.”

 

“Understand _what_?”

 

“That Overwatch is not an organization comprised of the best and brightest, although often we do seek those. Overwatch is comprised of individuals, human beings that do their best to help others. They are the kind of people that fight, yes, that kill, often. But they are also the people that would kneel beside a stranger to comfort them, even if they themselves are angry or put out. They are the type of people to spare when possible, to calm a hysterical woman and help her reclaim her life.”

 

A beat of hesitance and the fight left McCree’s eyes, though he remained tense. His gaze dropped, the brim of his hat dipping to obscure his face, make it even more difficult for Hanzo to get a read on him. He felt as though he were a kindred spirit in a sense -- McCree carried an air of sufferance, of prickly pride that reminded Hanzo far too much like his beginning days in Overwatch, and so rather than push the matter, he reached up and disconnected the magnetic communication device in his ear, holding it out to McCree.

 

“Wha’s this,” asked the taller of the two, somewhat calmer, his tone edging towards defeat, resignation. Sufferance. Still, he took the device, holding it gingerly.

 

“A comm link, to Overwatch. When you pinch and hold it for five seconds, it will start transmitting your location, signalling a desire for evac. Perhaps you don’t think you’re the type of person to be in Overwatch, but _Overwatch_ seems to think otherwise. I… think otherwise.”

 

There was silence, and Hanzo reached up to adjust the ribbon in his hair, collecting strands that had fallen out during combat and hadn’t been collected during the emotional display to come (such an encounter a little too much for the still-reserved Shimada). When it was clear that McCree planned to do nothing but look at the small device in his hand with an increasingly frustrating stoicism, Hanzo bowed his head.

 

“I see a man who would shoulder the world to give Atlas a break. That’s a person worth having around.”

 

Hanzo began to leave, a fire alight beneath his skin, energy unsettled as he walked away from a seemingly unconvinced McCree. But he knew when to let a man stew over his decisions, and nothing he could say would help further the cowboy’s thinking -- best to leave, and hope. Hope? He wasn’t sure where along the line he’d begun to hope that McCree would choose to join, but the hum of the dragons in acquiescence with the term confirmed it.

 

“And McCree?”

 

The man’s head snapped up, eyes wide.

 

“Until we meet again.”

 

_And so the ever-stoic Hanzo Shimada found a hope. The one, of course. Just one. Yet he had to hope to see Jesse McCree again, if only because he recognized a man at wit’s end, and something about him was…_

 

_Hm._

 

_He wasn’t sure._

 

(And five weeks later, when a lone figure waltzed past most of their security only to knock on the front door, nothing but the clothes on his back and his weapons where they were, it might be worthwhile to mention that Hanzo Shimada was not surprised. Also worthwhile would be mentioning that he definitely, certainly, absolutely did not get excited about the prospect of having Jesse McCree working by his side again.

 

That was definitely not the case.

 

Nope.

  
_Shit._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will feature the domestic life of an ill-adjusted McCree, the hunt for another outfit, and also Hanzo falling horribly for this new member of the team.
> 
> As always, feel free to correct me on my use of other languages, English and French I have confidence and everything else I do not. My thanks to my roommate for assistance with some of the Spanish.
> 
> Temae: (Japanese); an informal/rude way of saying 'you'  
> Amà: (Navajo); 'Mom'  
> Yiska: (Navajo) 'son'  
> Katana: (Japanese) A traditional sword used in outfitting samurai  
> Menuki: (Japanese) The portion of a sword on the handle, under the wrapping -- usually a symbol of sorts. Hanzo's is a gold and blue dragon.  
> Ahora que: (Spanish) Now what  
> Ahora le mato: (Spanish) Now I kill you  
> Tienes los días contados, Tuerto: (Spanish) You're living on borrowed time, Deadeye  
> Kogotana: (Japanese) A small utility knife kept in the sheath of a blade  
> De nada, señora, de nada: (Spanish) No problem, ma'am, no problem.  
> Oh, señor, señor, no sabes, no sabes: (Spanish) Oh sir, sir, you don't know, you don't know  
> La Espada: (Spanish) The swordsman  
> ¡Cálmate! Señora, por favor, él es mi compa: (Spanish) Calm down! Ma'am, please, he's my friend (companion, compadre)  
> el abusador, el ojeteL (Spanish) Abuser, dick


	3. Well, Howdy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I did not... precisely discover him."
> 
> "What do you mean?"
> 
> "Well, Winston... 
> 
>  
> 
> ... he knocked."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for the wait. This chapter is a little shorter but I needed to post something -- I've just returned from a trip to Europe, and thank you for the patience. I have the next chapter planned out, and then we started to get a little more plot. A slight warning for anxiety in this chapter, bonus points if you catch the 'Outsider' reference.
> 
> As always, I can be found on tumblr as brokewriterboy.

If there was disappointment regarding the fact that, after four and a half weeks of giving McCree ‘space’ , they’d nothing from the comm he’d been left with, no one seemed to mention anything. Other than a quick debrief with Winston following his return, it seemed nothing had come from the recon mission in New Mexico; nothing but the small black drive, which had been placed on a back burner while other matters were attended to. It was easy enough to fall into a rhythm, a comfortable routine that was reminiscent of the one Hanzo had tried to keep for all these years.

 

He woke early, ate breakfast, showered, and trained for three hours. Then, he’d break for brief meditation, eat lunch, work out for an hour and change, then run drills until four. Four until seven was the time he allowed for intellectual pursuits (mostly reading, mission-related research, keeping up to date on the subjects his tutors had so often drilled into his head) with a short break somewhere in those hours to allow for supper. After seven, he’d allow himself time to relax (which usually meant a drink and time alone, another attempt at meditation) and then sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat. 

 

Of course, these days he found himself outside with increasing frequency, almost as though he was waiting for something to appear on the rocky cliffs of Gibraltar, the winding road that lead off base. A silly thought of course, what could he possibly be waiting for?

 

_ Certainly not a rugged cowboy that reminds you too much of another you, younger and resentful and feeling madly alone,  _ teased a voice that was certainly not his, his skin prickling during the morning’s meditation, goosebumps rising not due to the salty ocean air but in response to the flicker of blue that no doubt danced along his arm.

 

“Of course not. Do not be so foolish,” came his reply, quiet and rumbling, dismissing the notion of the dragon creeping into his thoughts. Then, ignoring his advice, the other spoke up as well. 

 

_ Rugged? When did we decide on  _ that  _ term to describe him. He’s… _

 

_ Handsome? Rather a skilled shot? In possession of a voice like  _ _ Dākuchokorēto? _

 

_ Scruffy.  _

 

The two chuckled in the back of his mind, more or less ending the attempted meditation. As Hanzo’s eyes opened, he was witness to the lazy intertwining of the two dragons, chatting with each other amicably. Not for the first time, a sense of fondness swept over him, a love for the spirits that was… difficult to describe. It was a love for those that were a part of you and yet separate. The years he’d gone disconnected from the dragons had been… trying. Like he’d lost parts of himself, in all that grief and anger. It wasn’t something he cared to think too long about, shameful to this day. The conversation at hand served as a distraction, and so he indulged.

 

“I would not have described his voice as dark chocolate, Ao.”

 

_ Oh, you would’ve. Had you paid attention! _

 

The more outgoing of the two shifted to curl around Hanzo, resting her head in his lap so he could run his hand over her scales. Still, dark chocolate? It was a little over the top to describe someone he’d known for such a short amount of time. Yes, he  _ had  _ had a nice voice, and a look about him that was… not bad. 

 

“Perhaps if he became acquainted with a shower, I’d be inclined to pay attention.”

 

Ao scoffed at him, but said no more. Mizu remained silent, curling up to Hanzo’s side and making himself comfortable against his master’s thigh. It was a moment of peace, of quiet that Hanzo would’ve rejected once upon a time. Still did, on occasion. But for now he simply… allowed it. Let himself relax among the dragons, knowing they were vigilant. Trusting them. 

 

Something he’d taken some time to learn.

 

But the next while was spent resting, calm. Peaceful even. A break from the stress of everyday life.

 

\---

 

It was during dinner that the familiar voice of Athena broke through the reverie of conversation, the same hum of friendly voices that made up the cafeteria most nights, turned sour by a few choice words. 

 

Hanzo did not usually join others in the cafeteria. It was difficult, sometimes, for him to be around so much camaraderie, and though his presence wasn’t unwanted, it was still rare for him to be around the busy mess hall. But, being partially responsible for supper tonight (read as: mostly responsible, as Genji’s version of cooking seemed to involve food spicy enough to likely poison some of their milder teammates) he found himself gathered in the common area, with a chipper Genji on one side and the comfortably silent Mei on the other. 

 

“-- and I am certain I have not seen him so lost in his own thoughts since he made friends with a shepherd passing through Hanamura!”

 

Whatever uncomfortable silence Hanzo had been hoping to enjoy was cut short by the fact that he had certainly missed something important, considering the gleam in Genji’s mostly uncovered eyes and the way that Ms. Oxton was about to snort miso soup out of her nose in amusement.

 

“I beg your pardon, but was it not the younger Shimada brother who insisted, every day the shepherd was there, that we sneak out so that he may pet the single sheep brought with him?”

 

Paying attention or not, Hanzo had enough experience with Genji’s attempts at poking and prodding to be able to deflect without much effort, his full attention unnecessary to save his own dignity. Still, the younger leaned closer and Hanzo scrunched up his nose to try and make clear just how little he wished for his personal space to be invaded. There was mischief in those dark eyes, mischief and something  _ devious  _ and he didn’t trust him for a moment.

 

“Ah, but at least I only wished to pet the  _ sheep _ .”

 

“And you’re implying what, exactly?”

 

“Only that perhaps there is another who has captured your thoughts of late.”

 

Denying it outright would be too obvious, but to be quite frank, aside from passing fancies, Hanzo didn’t indulge in the idea of affection -- certainly not pertaining to rowdy Americans he’d met once and likely would never see again. Anywhere else, with just the two brothers, and the situation would be easier to handle -- but there were people here. Already Ms. Oxton had kept her eyes on him, and with Genji’s projecting voice and the conniving way he leaned in, others were beginning to take notice. The hand he kept under the table gripped tightly into his pants, nails digging into the fabric. He felt eyes, so many eyes, and the lights seemed to be growing brighter with every passing moment, illuminating every last inch of the surrounding area. With the moment of hesitation, Genji’s glee seemed to falter, and his smirk twitched, unsure of itself.

 

“Brother? I did not -- “

 

“At least I have thought to spare -- you assume too much! You know not of what you’re speaking of, and I’ll not have you insinuate anything about my behaviours.”

 

It was harsh, cutting, and the words sliced the inside of Hanzo’s cheeks before they threw themselves at Genji. It was too difficult to see his brother in the blinding light, only the faintest recollection of right and wrong drilling itself into his head, joining the bright light in its torment of his mind. Perhaps, had everything not been so bright (he supposed the world could see the way his hair stood on end and he felt so utterly exposed), he’d have noticed the deepening frown on his younger brother’s face, but instead all he could see was white, all he could hear was deafening silence and --

 

“ _ All agents, there is an unidentified intruder in Ground Entrance East-2 -- he appears to be armed. No other identified intruders, but please be advised. _ ”

 

Athena’s voice snapped everyone to attention, and though it took a second for Hanzo’s mind to remember where it was, he found himself already moving towards the mess hall exit, his brother brushing gently by him in a silent gesture of  _ ‘we will talk _ ’ hidden in the brief shoulder-to-shoulder contact. 

 

_ When did he grow up, _ asked faintly the voice inside Hanzo’s head, but now was not the time to mourn the childhood (life) he’d cut short -- instead, he was heading towards the east entrance, when someone a few paces behind spoke aloud.

 

“Athena, what did you mean the ‘entrance’? How’d he make it there without detection?”

 

Winston’s confused tone portrayed more curiosity than it did concern. To be frank, Hanzo hadn’t even thought of that, whisking by those who were choosing to clear other areas first on his way to the east entrance. Gibraltar wasn’t as decked out as it once had been in the olden days, but Athena’s systems were equipped with surveillance of the entire surrounding area -- to get onto the base grounds was hard enough, but to make it all the way to the entrance without being detected? Their intruder was considerably skilled. 

 

_ I will be moreso.  _

 

Assured of his ability to handle whomsoever was attempting to invade, Hanzo darted down a narrower corridor, and slipped through a maintenance slip in order to reach the entrance faster. Even then, with comms activated, Winston and Athena’s conversation continued in his left ear.

 

“I am uncertain -- none of my systems implied his presence. However, I find it important to mention that I did… not precisely discover him.”

 

The near-sheepishness of the AI gave Hanzo the mental image of a foot scuffing dirt, hands wringing against each other (habits he’d long trained out of). The doorway was directly ahead now, Tracer and Genji present already, simply waiting for Winston to near just in case. He was not too far behind.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

The gorilla’s voice came through the comm and from behind Hanzo, and the Shimada melted to the right, allowed Genji to take the left side of the door while Tracer perched in front of Winston, the latter readying a shield. One nod from the gorilla and the command to open the door was input, the lights outside the entrance turning on all at once to attempt to blind the potential invader.

 

“Well, Winston…”

 

The doors slid open on their intruder, and just as Hanzo was ready to spring and deal with a clever, potentially deadly invader, a small gasp from Tracer and the sight before him had his blades stayed beside him.

 

“He knocked.”

 

There, squinting against the light as though it had somehow offended him, the dark-skinned cowboy from New Mexico sat cross-legged on the steps up to the door. His rifle sat slung over his shoulder, prosthetic hand lifting to try and shield dark brown eyes from the artificial illumination set off by Athena. Hanzo, not for the first time upon seeing this man, was taken back by the gruff way he seemed to  _ exist _ , loud in presence and smell and -- as his eyes swept over to the agents and a smirk lit up his sun-kissed face -- voice.

 

“Well, howdy there. Don’t reckon’m too late to take up that invitation now, m’I?”

 

_ Well!  _ Began Ao from the back of Hanzo’s mind, an unwelcome distraction from the heat rising on his cheeks in response to the cocksure way the American looked at him.

 

**_Now_ ** _ we’re paying attention! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will have adventures of a desert man living in civilization, as well as more hopeless pining Hanzo, because what man doesn't love that gruff, tan cowboy?


	4. Taming Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulls in china shops have had more luck than McCree on base; oh no, he can behave himself just fine, to a point. But teeth are bared and he's more than a little unaccustomed to any sense of vulnerability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay here y'all. I've been having a wild time trying to update -- warnings ahead for some panic / anxiety, but reasonably mild.

“ _ You’re  _ Jesse McCree?!”

 

He hadn’t been inside the base for more than 2 minutes and already there was a small British girl who was vibrating with excitement.

 

_ Vibrating.  _ He wasn’t even exaggerating.

 

“Well, my name ain’t Joel.”

 

A pause, and the young woman was laughing as if that was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. It was almost contagious, the way her grin split her face wide, moreso now that her weapon was holstered. Of course, Jesse couldn’t help but flick his eyes now and then to the large  _ gorilla  _ that was a few steps away, having noticed that one a few seconds after flashing a little wave to Hanzo. To be frank, he wasn’t sure if he should be more concerned about the stoicism on the swordsman’s face or the way that the large primate was eyeing him as though he’d grown another head.

 

(Newsflash, he hadn’t. He had even risked a glance to the side just to check.)

 

“Well, I’m Lena Oxton, and my call sign’s Tracer! It’s right time you showed up, we was thinking you’d dodged off!”

 

A hand was thrust out towards him, and for one horrifying moment, McCree wanted nothing more than to turn tail and run straight back to the desert he’d left behind. Rather than do the normal, human thing and shake the outstretched hand, he stared at the limb as though he’d forgotten what a human hand looked like. Luckily, a beat of hesitation was all it took for Tracer to move onto her next movement, handshake forgotten.

 

“Anyways, this here is Winston, and of course you remember Hanzo! And that’s his brother Genji!”

 

He felt sluggish compared to the rapidfire way Tracer introduced them all, even turning his head seeming like it was a snail’s movement compared to the way that the young woman spoke. Sure enough, standing next to the swordsman who had yet to react in any way to his arrival, was a man who seemed to be… mostly metallic. Small fingers danced in the air, a playful wave and nope. No way were Bouncy Glowguy and Stony McBroods related to each other thank you very much. Still, he looked to Hanzo (even the slightest familiarity the other could offer was better than being stranded in an unknown situation without a scrap of predictability) and spoke to address them all.

 

“Jesse McCree, at y’er service, so to speak. Now, I heard something about a potential job?”

 

He smiled like it was easy, the movement as natural as the way he hooked his prosthetic thumb into the loop on his jean, a twitch away from weapons as was his comfortable position. If anything, Hanzo managed to look even more displeased, so perhaps it was a pleasant distraction when the gorilla (actual gorilla and no, he wasn’t getting over this) spoke up.

“Ah, yes! Good. I believe I have much to go over with you -- Athena, please award Mr. McCree here level 3 access with supervisor restrictions, under personnel file McCree. If you have a preferred call sign…?”

 

Here, the brute looked over to him, and after a moment of consideration, he simply shook his head.

 

“McCree’ll do me just fine.”

 

Too-thin glasses were adjusted with disproportionate fingers and Winston was gesturing for them to turn about and walk further into the base.

 

“Excellent. I’ll assign Agent Hanzo Shimada as primary supervisor for the time being, as you’ve already worked with him. If you just come with me, we can sort out a few placement points and rules regarding your potential employment.”

 

Shimada? Again? Something akin to paranoia crept just below McCree’s skin, the sickly sensation of being watched -- yet as he glanced over to where the somewhat familiar agent was, it seemed Hanzo was doing his absolute best to instead glare directly at the ground as though it had somehow offended him. Huh. Worked for him.

 

“Sounds good boss.”

 

Jesse finally responded, and made to follow the gorilla as the other retreated further into the building, his steps traced by the shorter girl in flickering lights of blue. This was already going to be interesting -- and maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be as bad as he thought it would.

 

\---

 

This was a thousand times worse than he thought it would be.

 

Jesse McCree was not an incredibly kind man -- he did his best to smile when necessary, and those social interactions required of a new worker were generally easy for him, but this seemed a lot less like his usual work and more like… people being friendly towards him. 

 

Six times during their meeting, Winston had cracked jokes or tried, in some way, to offer a metaphorical olive branch to him, each time more difficult than the last to brush aside politely. Then, seconds after leaving that hellish exchange, Ms. Oxton was directly outside the door with twelve espressos worth of energy and the claim that ‘Hanzo’s nice and all but I think you could get a tour from someone who’s a little more -- well, maybe just a tad more conversational!’. That tour turned into a ‘meet the crew’ episode for McCree, who was just about ready to punch a wall by the time he’d met more than eight people, and seen over half of the Gibraltar base. Each passing minute was testing him slightly more than the last, which finally brought him to the present.

At the moment, there was some young musician who had launched first into a friendly introduction (it was friendly, really, but McCree’s ability to appreciate attempts at being welcoming diminished by the second), before stopping midsentence and veering straight onto a tangent.

 

“Woah, hey -- you’re  _ the  _ McCree though? Like, famous outlaw and all that?”

 

His smile felt like it was liable to crack his teeth with how hard he forced it, but still his gloved hand dipped down the brim of his hat as he responded.

 

“Sure am.”

 

“Woah, dude -- is it true that you actually evaded the police by going over a waterfall in a metal crate?”

 

It was a little sad how excited everyone was to meet him -- especially when they knew his reputation. Sure, a few wild stories tended to stick around, but were the Overwatch members just blatantly ignoring the fact that he was a fugitive? That he put himself in ‘zany’ situations to evade capture? Yes. Yes they were.

 

_ What the hell is wrong with these people? _

 

“In all technicalities,” he begun in a drawn out drawl, moreso than usual as though his fatigue was beginning to affect his speech, “it was a wooden barrel, old school style.”

 

The laugh he earned would’ve been nice under any other occasion, but right now Lance (Lucy? L-something,  _ God I’m an asshole, remember the guy’s name McCree _ ) was beginning to represent a few days worth of lack of sleep, and the stress that accompanies being shoved into suffocating social activity when all you wanted to do was hide away and consider the fact that you left behind your home, your life, your crimes apparently, and….

 

“That’s sick! You’ll have to tell me all about it! It was great meeting you.”

 

Then, the musician ( _ Lucio, that was the name -- just had a concert in Numbani or somewhere _ ) did the thing. The thing that sometimes happens in social interactions. 

 

He stuck out his hand, as though to shake McCree’s. He tried to initiate physical contact.

 

Any other day, any other time, McCree would’ve been able to do it. Fake it ‘til you make it and all that: he could shake hands and shoot the shit with the best of them, but after smuggling his way here, leaving behind more than he cared to admit, and more or less having an internal breakdown regarding his motivations for taking up the offer of the white hats’, he couldn’t do it. Instead, he stared at the outstretched appendage as though it represented everything that had gone wrong in the world. It was in his space, the guy before him was loud and brash and young, and hopeful and all the things he couldn’t be. This entire place was wrong -- they welcomed him too easily, this was all too easy. Where were his tests? The hazing? The senior members who’d stare down at him and judge him? Everyone here was hopeful, everything here was bright and smiling and he couldn’t stand the way that the air was perfectly cooled and all the walls, all the rooms were clean or being clean, and the hand -- oh the hand -- it was outstretched and he’d already come all this way and he was going to break down at the first touch he -- 

 

“Please tell me you’ve been raised with enough manners to understand an outstretched hand.”

 

A familiar voice, stern in its tone and matching perfectly the poised expression no doubt resting on the newcomer to the room, broke McCree’s reverie for but a moment. To be frank, he didn’t want to deal with the priss either, that clean man who’d stuck out like a sore thumb in the desert, a rose growing through concrete -- 

 

“... Lucio, would you excuse us?”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

There was concern in the second voice, and caution in the first. Were they done now? Could he be done? He was going to collapse into himself any moment now.

 

“... McCree, would you like to be shown your room?”

 

Hanzo was talking to him. The name, the name of the concrete rose -- Hanzo. McCree’s eyes stared at the spot the hand had been minutes ago, and slowly he gathered his words.

 

“Yes.”

 

Curt and far different than the long, sprawling sentences of before. A response was immediate though, even if the implication made him want to recoil.

 

“May I guide you?”

 

“Don’t touch me,” came his sharp reply, and his eyes flicked up to meet Hanzo’s gaze: but where he’d expected confusion or pity was only a carefully constructed neutrality. He was polite but seemingly disinterested, and for some reason that was far more calming than any concern the other could’ve shown. False concern and pity, without understanding, was the last thing he wanted right now.

 

(Right now he wanted the creaking porch, the rocking chair with the loopy blanket on it, the women with crow’s feet who always brushed back his hair. He wanted metal in his hands and tin cans lined up on rotting fence posts, fifty paces away, knocked down without a second thought.)

 

“I wouldn’t. This way, please.”

 

And Hanzo was moving, at a pace that was brisk enough to get to where they needed to be but slow enough to let McCree keep track of where he was. Paranoia, surely, but he wanted to understand the twists and turns, the halls and rooms they passed to come to the crew quarters. The sight of a door with the simple electronic display next to it citing ‘McCree, J.’ was enough to have Jesse almost thank whatever gods were listening, because the thought of closing himself off was like drinking in the desert and his heart swelled. 

 

He nearly pushed by Hanzo in his desperation to be away, to be somewhere a little darker, quieter, where he could feel less like eyes were boring into his skin. But his distaste for touching remained, and he hesitated until Hanzo stepped aside, the door opening automatically before the two. McCree darted into the doorway before a second thought could be had, sparing only a brief glance towards the other man. The other man who looked vaguely like he wanted to say something -- but a moment of silence passed between them instead. His tired eyes traced the ever-growing-familiar features, the sharpness of Hanzo’s face, the way his lips seemed to tighten every time he wanted to say something but refrained. He looked like something out of a goddamn story, some legend of discipline and prowess. 

 

_ Treacherous thoughts to be having.  _

 

His breath escaped his lips gently, in a shattered sigh, and the outlaw hesitated before speaking in a voice cracked from stress.

 

“Thanks.”

 

The words were far less confident than anything else he’d said, and the only response from Hanzo was a curt bow, the inclining of his head never stopping him from maintaining eye contact. He was far more intense now, some train of thought leading the gears in his head to turn -- 

 

\-- so Jesse closed the door and locked it, shutting it against the world, Overwatch, and the handsome man who right now frightened him.

 

Goddammit. He was a child.

 

\---

 

Living with Jesse McCree was, as Hanzo was quickly learning, like living with the unholy offspring of a wildman and a trained animal. Half of the time, he fit in perfectly, chatting amicably and networking with the others on base as though he’d been there all along. But the other half of the time, Hanzo was picking up on traits that he was… concerned about. Not just for everyone else, but for the cowboy himself, and what the behaviours could mean. 

 

It started on the third day of McCree’s presence in the Gibraltar base. The first couple of days had gone without much more than passing acknowledgements between the two of them, a tilt of the hat from the cowboy and a curt nod from the elder Shimada when their paths crossed in the hallways. To be frank, Hanzo spent as little time possible in the presence of the others -- while the team was an intrinsic part of his life, he’d be dishonest if he were to claim proficiency in actual, meaningful relationships.

 

(  _ “You know brother,” Genji began, propping metallic feet up on the table in the recreation room, where Hanzo had gathered some crosswords and was forced to abandon them in order to consider his brother’s presence once the younger’s limbs blocked his papers.  _

 

_ “There’s another games night -- a word-based one, this time -- tonight. I’m sure you’d have fun if you decided to show up instead of scurrying off to your room like every other night.” _

 

_ The glare Genji got in response was potent enough to make the younger whistle, and when Hanzo tried to leave in a dignified manner, gathering his crosswords in a pull that swept Genji’s feet off the table, his brother simply shook his head, not quite quiet enough that Hanzo didn’t hear his next murmur. _

 

_ “Brother, when will you just let someone else in?” ) _

 

So no, he wasn’t exactly the most social member on Overwatch’s team, and in the time that McCree was here, he had initially responded with a heightened reclusive tendency, trying desperately to hide himself away from everyone while he considered what to do about their new team member. In fact, much of his time was spent researching. He found more information on his temporary-partner-turned-probationary-team-member and the more he found, the more he realized that they didn’t know a great deal. The press was divided on one Jesse McCree, major news outlets proclaiming him ‘outlaw’ and depicting him as a dangerous, greedy thief and hired gun, contrasting with the independent news and the individuals who cried out that not an innocent was harmed, contradicting stories of armed robberies and mass murders and the tales of children saved or the kindness of a son coming home to a family after being thought a lost cause. The actual facts though -- numbers and statistics, were hard to come by. A lot was based on hearsay, and to be frank, McCree’s range of influence seemed to spread through the southwest of the United States primarily, with adventures in Mexico and towards the North on occasion (there existed a few alleged sightings on other continents, but aside from a video that showed a glimpse of something that might’ve been the cowboy (but also could’ve been anyone with a swatch of red and a hat) in a mad crowd in Spain, there was  no solid evidence. Just allegations.

 

But why the strained behaviour on his arrival? Some of his interactions were perfectly amicable, polite and well-suited to the environment, if overly confident or casual. But after prolonged times around others he became terse. There was more to be considered here, but for the time being, Hanzo needed to find out more from the man himself and that wouldn’t be done by hiding away in his room. 

 

So, on the third day, he decided that he’d had enough of trying to find out from unreliable sources things that may or may not be true, and finally Hanzo stepped out with the intention of getting some fresh air and perhaps even… assessing the man himself, with alleged stories to corroborate or invalidate. 

 

It took very little time to happen upon McCree, and Hanzo was awed when he was found. Not out of some form of being impressed, but rather because the announcement and discovery of the cowboy was so…  _ profoundly characteristic.  _

 

“Now, I reckon that’s not quite right -- y’er saying I can only move this here piece forwards?”

 

The voice was coming from one of the rec rooms, and Hanzo laid himself flat against the wall, silent to figure out what was happening. McCree was playing a game of some sorts, and by the sound of it, he wasn’t quite understanding the mechanics. 

 

A frustrated sigh followed the cowboy’s wondering about the pieces, and the next words were spoken in a proper tone, pronunciation pristine and frustration clear in the slight tremor of the words as they came out.

 

“You had told me, Mr. McCree, that you knew how to play. If you lied just to get on my nerves, you’ve more than accomplished that.”

 

“Well, shucks, I’m real sorry ‘bout that Ms. Vaswani -- didn’t mean to disappoint ye or nothin’.”

 

McCree sounds properly mollified, and Satya gave a long-suffering sigh; knowing his teammate enough to picture her, Hanzo knew she was pinching the bridge of her nose and there would be a crease between her eyebrows. He wondered what McCree was doing; whether he leaned over the board and looked on with puzzled eyes, or whether he reclined and propped his feet up, overly cocky. Would he have his hands fidgeting above the table, or would they stroke the beard he grew about his thick jaw, the wavy hair sprouted from bronzed skin -- bronzed skin he was  _ officially overthinking.  _

 

Ignoring the heat in his cheeks, Hanzo chose to stride into the room, equal parts curious and aghast that he’d so blatantly entered the recreational area. As he’d predicted, Satya’s hand was dropping away from where it had gathered on her face, a dulled frustration setting her temples to flicker once before her dark gaze fell upon Hanzo in an accusatory fashion, as if McCree’s dogged refusal to understand was in some way his fault. McCree, on the other hand, sat up straighter from where he’d been resting his chin against his hand, elbow on the table as a chess piece waved in the air before him along with the end of his sentence. His eyes slid easily over to Hanzo, and though the smile was brightened by his entry, there seemed not to be an ounce of surprise on the man’s face; just a pleasant obliviousness.

 

“Well howdy partner! Fancy seein’ you here; maybe you could help out a fella. Miss Vaswani here’s been kicking my ass six ways to Sunday ain’t that right miss?”

 

If the warm invitation hadn’t been accompanied by the silent demand in Satya’s eyes to fix the mess that McCree had made of her attempt at pasttime, Hanzo would’ve excused himself from the game, acting as observer. But as it were, the black pieces controlled by Satya seemed to drastically overpower the presence of the white chess pieces controlled by McCree. A moment of silence was broken only when McCree prodded, his tone still open and easy.

 

“Well, what d’ya say partner?”

 

And that was how Hanzo found himself engaged in a chess match, patience tested against McCree’s constant questions and strategy tested by the careful, considerate plays made by his opponent. By the time the match was over, Hanzo had narrowly lost, Satya suggesting the two of them ‘play again sometime’,

 

“Without our less-inclined company.”

 

She finished with a pointed look at McCree, who was now flipping through a magazine idly, looking up only when he felt two pairs of eyes on him, eyebrows shot up as though genuinely frightened by the equally calm gazes picking him apart. Almost sheepishly, the magazine was dropped on his lap, and the sniper smiled, skin creasing as his expression tried to hide the slight embarrassment behind having abandoned the game and his company.

 

“Ah, what’s that now?”

 

He’d asked, and Hanzo huffed out a half-laugh, agreeing to Satya’s idea with an odd weight in his chest; something warm, and solid. Comforting though.

 

How odd.

 

\-----

 

The second incident only took place when Hanzo returned from a quick reconnaissance mission in the West Indes, requiring a good deal of stealth to gather the patterns of a foreign agent believed to be involved with certain Talon activities -- the habits held by the agent, meetings with a Cuban contact dealing with negotiations and the transport of a cargo believed to contain enough weapons to arm the gangs of Havana twelve times over not to mention some sensitive information regarding an omnic peace movement spreading through northern Mexico and some regions of the Southern states. The movement was of little consequence to Hanzo, although Overwatch agents were to some extent involved and interested in its continuation, the movement was not Hanzo’s primary issue. Instead, he returned to the base for debriefing and Winston had been rather pleased, the two of them discussing the growing momentum between the human-omnic movement sweeping through the Central Americas and heading north with growing frequency. It was decided that their strategy regarding their mild indifference to the movement would have to be re-evaluated with potential Talon interests in the matter.

 

After the weary mission, Hanzo had wanted to clean up and then sleep, only barely mustering the energy to gather his laundry and head to the washing facilities rather than collapse into bed with stale clothes still wrapped about his body. He could only thank years of discipline and responsibility that he didn’t immediately give into the notion of rest after days of perching in a condemned building across from where his target had been staying. It was four in the morning, so he didn’t anticipate traffic while doing laundry, meaning he had some time to reflect if he so pleased.

 

Of course, it was that same discipline that kept him from immediately dropping the hamper and scattering his clothes across the floor when the sight of a very awake, very  _ unclothed  _ McCree fussing over one of the laundry machines. The burlier man’s stance gave away his stress, the lines of muscle tight as a very troubled McCree tried to understand why mashing the buttons on the machine didn’t somehow speed up the five minute delay on the time it took the program in the machine to detect the level of sanitation of the load entered, and the weight; all the basics for a washing machine in any civilized part of the world. Yet McCree looked at it like the machine had stolen the clothes off his back, shoulders flexing outwards as he pushed his arms together, crossing them in front of a hairy chest Hanzo could only barely see from this angle, faded and fresher scars littering the surprisingly athletic form of the American. 

 

(Why was that so surprising to him? He supposed that under the layers of plaid and casual clumsiness, Hanzo hadn’t considered that his physical capabilities would have such results.) 

 

No, frustration was written all over from the scrunched face of the darker man, to the taut stretch of his chest hidden partially by a towel over one of his shoulders, the fold in thick muscle mass around his centre as he leaned over the top-loaded machine, the slightest hint of a ‘v’ dipping down in thick hips to where he wore merely a standard overwatch towel wrapped around his waist (and oh thank God for that towel, even moreso than the other).

 

_ “Oh my.” _

 

Ao chuckled in the back of his head and as though he’d been launched back into the moment, Hanzo realized that he’d been staring almost lecherously at his newer teammate, soaking in with more than just curiosity the figure he cut just trying to figure out the laundry machine. Hanzo choked on the air, with a horrifyingly audible sound that had McCree whipping around with the sort of speed and intensity that Hanzo could only attribute to a coyote caught distracted, now turning on its watcher with a sort of violent snarl, hackles raised. But the moment lasted for a fraction of second, so quick Hanzo wasn’t sure he’d seen it before McCree forced a tense smile, without the natural warmth that Hanzo had come to expect from the apparently easygoing cowboy.

 

“Well, fancy seein’ you here. Didn’t expect you back from your mission so soon.”

 

Hanzo blinked a few times, tongue turned to lead in his mouth before he realized he was  expected to respond. Snippier than he’d hoped to, his words darted out.

 

“I was gone for more than enough time to get the job done.”

 

McCree frowned, eyebrows pulling together into a crease, words failing to come in response, and Hanzo closed his eyes briefly, summoning the strength to walk forwards and begin loading the second laundry machine as though the man to his left wasn’t practically naked beside him.

 

_ Just pretend this is normal, Hanzo. Just pretend.  _

 

“So,” McCree began conversationally, because obviously the man existed for the mere purpose to infuriate Hanzo and  _ why was he so close wearing so little, Ao stop laughing.  _

 

“Come here often?”

 

“To the laundry room?” 

Countered Hanzo flatly, refusing to look to the side where McCree practically towered over him in all his bare-chestedness. Apparently his resolution to ignore McCree’s presence was discouraging to the larger man, who backed off a little and gestured, mumbling about ‘ _ okay I guess so’ _ . Then, as Hanzo finished turning inside out his last shirt, placing it in the machine and selecting the automated, wrinkle-free function (because what sort of archaic laundry machine washed and dried in separate machines?), he indulged himself in a sidelong glance. A few steps away, McCree had gone back to focusing probably unhealthily on the machine, unable to translate the symbols into meaning. His flesh hand jammed fingers onto the screen, grumbling unhappily. His other hand held the towel in place, white fabric clenched between metal joints. To be honest, he hadn’t realized how far up the limb the prosthetic had gone, not stopping at the wrist but stretching further, what appeared to be scrap metal hastily welded in some place, bolted in others, stiff and uncomfortable looking, and it couldn’t be that --

 

“Can I help you, swordsman?”

 

Before he could pick apart the prosthetic with his eyes (how far did it go, after the edge of the towel hiding that side of McCree?), there was something sharp in McCree’s tone, something like flint when Hanzo looked up to meet his eyes. The relaxation to his stance was gone, and he was standing up straight, like someone had inflated a rod in his spine. For the second time, Hanzo had the feeling he was looking less at a man and more at a desert wolf - he could almost hear the other growling, on edge. The switch from casual to dangerous was instantaneous, a transition that took no time and gave Hanzo whiplash -- what had he done to warrant the sudden defensiveness?

 

_ “Consider how you’ve found him.” _

 

Whispered Mizu, ever observant, and Hanzo did exactly that. He had been so caught off by McCree’s state of dress that he failed to realize some very important details; McCree was purposefully doing laundry when the chances of running into someone else were low, he was clearly using the towels as a temporary measure, there was only one set of clothes in the machine…

 

Hanzo could feel Mizu settle once he figured it out. McCree hadn’t had any bags with him. McCree had only one set of clothes. Had Hanzo found himself in a brand new place, surrounded by practical strangers, with little or nothing to his name (something that had happened quite a while ago, in what felt like another life at this point), it would be more than just a question of  _ pride _ , it was a question of self-sustainability, independence, and never would he want a stranger to know the situation he was in.

 

The time it took him to understand was short -- a second or two at most, where his face remained passive and his lips pursed only towards the end of the consideration. Then, he moved forwards, McCree drawing himself up even more, lip curling and a spark catching in brown eyes, flint and steel clashing against one another… 

 

Then Hanzo reached out an arm and swiped his thumb over the controls to the right, selecting the circle with three dots in the middle, and holding it calmly for the two seconds that it required. A soft ‘beep’ signalled that the machine was starting the scan and to his credit, McCree didn’t so much as flinch, stony and still as Hanzo picked up his empty laundry hamper and left the room. As soon as he was around the corner, Hanzo leaned against the wall, head tilted back to rest against the smooth, cold surface. He tried to ground himself with that, trying not to think of the way that in a matter of minutes, the cowboy could be flustering, annoying, and carry a distinct sense of danger with minor shifts in his demeanour.

 

He tried even harder not to think about the smooth lines of muscle, the smell of smoke clinging faintly to the man himself, the warmth he’d felt in the air around him as he’d moved to start the machine.

 

Most of all, he tried really,  _ really  _ hard not to consider the way that he wouldn’t have minded being a little closer, or looking a little longer.

 

“Fuck.”

 

He whispered, clammy hand dragging down his face.

 

_ “‘Fuck’ indeed.” _

  
Came Mizu’s thoughtful reply, Ao cackling in the background.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: actual combat, mission assignments, and -- look there, is that a plot?


	5. Cliffs of Gibraltar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for suicidal implications: a mission off, research done, and the team is privy to an outburst from their newest member. What drastic decision has Hanzo made?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The suicidal implication is mild but present.
> 
> Also, kudos to me for a weekly update whew. I haven't edited this, since it's midnight, but oh well.

The ‘laundry incident’, as Hanzo had taken to calling it, was a bane on his existence. He hadn’t  _ intended  _ to see McCree half-naked, hadn’t intended to be a part of anything so cringeworthy and anxiety inducing so  _ really _ it made sense that he had then proceeded to avoid McCree for the next week. 

 

Well, he avoided the  _ man _ , but his curiosity hadn’t acquiesced just yet. When he was a child, undue curiosity would be met with the appropriate punishments. But years away from the clan had nurtured his curiosity, and though he pursued it, he did so quietly. 

 

Sometimes, the ghosts of what was were reluctant to leave the people they haunted.

 

So instead, he’d found himself working at his computer. A cup of jasmine tea lay steaming to his right, Ao curling on his shoulders and Mizu resting by his feet. Though he didn’t particularly advertise his hyperopic state, he did find that long hours spent reading (especially on a screen) were assuaged slightly by the slim reading glasses now perched on his face. Despite his comfortable appearance, he could feel a tension in his wrists, and every precise keystroke seemed only to increase the sensation. 

 

_ “If you were him, how would you feel about this?” _

 

Ao tilted her head, the edges of her whiskers brushing against his cheek, which twitched briefly in return.

 

“... you saw how he acted; I am merely…  _ concerned _ about what he might do here.”

 

He refused to look to Ao, where he knew a smarmy, sarcastic expression would greet him (if he was lucky). If he was being honest, he dreaded the outcome that ended in him being looked at with the pitying expression that Ao tended to give him when paranoia or anxious tendencies led to him acting destructively either to himself or others. And yes, it was likely concerning how poorly he took to life outside the clan, but he was…  _ trying. _ Actively trying.

 

Besides, at least he could speak to his brother now. That hadn’t been the case until recall, which was… more embarrassing than he wished to admit.

 

Anyways. Curiosity dictated that he snoop, so into the search section, he quickly typed in the name of the object of his curiosity.

 

_ McCree _

 

Then, there were files. Over 300 public media files, and he figured he’d skim those first. It made sense to gather different perspectives, though he suspected most of the information would be regarding the bounty. Navigating to the public media page (and he would’ve pitied the poor sap who had to gather all this, but it was Athena and her processing power meant she scoured the internet hourly for items of interest), he began to click on a few different articles. As he’d expected, it was mostly a collection of publications announcing an expansion to the several million dollar bounty, or an adjustment of price, what have you. The list of charges that were published Hanzo took with a grain of salt; official documents from police forces and -- hold on, Interpol? Maybe that shouldn’t have shocked him, considering Overwatch’s interest in the man. But still he was reading the notice; a few assault charges, weapons trafficking, kidnapping… kidnapping of a  _ minor _ . 

 

_ “We don’t know anything for certain.” _

 

Ao tried to assuage any concerns softly from his shoulder, and… yeah. Yeah, he didn’t know for sure what the stories were behind the charges, and it wasn’t until he worked with Overwatch for a few years that his charges had been acquitted, and even then, it was only because of some clever work done by one of the Overwatch members’ wives. But still… 

 

_ What kind of person is wanted for abduction of minors? _

 

A hand reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, trying to distract himself from the moral dilemmas he was having. He supposed that Winston was aware of the public charges, along with anyone else that okay’d McCree’s joining, but it still perturbed him. He found himself tapping his lower lip, and moving on to a few more articles. Conflicting information shouted at him from a digital screen, the next hour or so was spent flicking between different sources; interestingly enough, there seemed to be a divide between more local, less mainstream news outlets and those larger, mainstream outlets. The larger ones definitively took the approach of the legal system: McCree was a criminal who seemed to appear out of nowhere around the age of 18, with a few allegations regarding his youth. There were videos of shootouts he bookmarked for later, crime statistics, witnesses describing huge conflicts between McCree and other people, sometimes armed sometimes not. However, it was the smaller, personal media that had his attention. Blog posts, poorly filmed video of a man in a cowboy get up pulling a child from the wreckage of a train, a station full of people who were saved by the diversion or intervention of McCree. It seemed that for every incidence where McCree was hailed as a master criminal, there was someone who sang about his being a hero.

 

“Interesting.”

 

He murmured, saving a few articles for later. So far, Hanzo had gathered very different viewpointson the same man, and frustratingly enough, it didn’t make for a clear picture. The man’s motives were unclear and it… unnerved him. Everyone had motivations, goals, desires; what he couldn’t figure out was what the cowboy’s were.

 

His finger tapped the Overwatch portal, opening up the collected files of interest regarding McCree. Hanzo’s password was quick, the biometrics test quicker on the DNA of the swordsman, and soon he was looking at a variety of files kept up by Athena and whomever wrote up their reports as requested. There were some recent ones; Hanzo’s eyebrow cocked at the newest entry, a mission log.

 

“That would explain why I’ve not seen him the last few days.”

 

He murmured aloud, ignoring the voice in his head that pointed out,  _ that and your avoidance of all social contact. _ It was better to save the mild self-loathing for later, not when he was on a research roll. He clicked on the mission log, which was currently restricted in some sections; protocol for an ongoing event. After it was done, most Overwatch agents would be able to access it. For now, he took note of those assigned and the mission directive: McCree was accompanying ‘Soldier 76’, ‘D.va’, and ‘Mercy’ on a point-capture style mission. The location was encrypted but they’d left just two days ago. Those sorts of missions tended to be short -- he’d expect them back in the next day or two.

 

A sigh passed by his much-abused lips, sharp eyes flicking over the call tags assigned to the mission, trying to work out how the team would function. Morrison tended to get on Hana’s nerves, but Angela would be an appropriate balance between the two. Adding McCree into the mix, however… For some reason, Hanzo could only picture the man being relaxed in the presence of others, in that overcompensating way he had. 

 

“If nothing else, he’ll unify them in their distaste for him.”

 

He pointed out, and Mizu huffed what could’ve been a laugh by his feet. Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong; but without really  _ knowing  _ McCree, it was hard to say how the outlaw would behave. 

 

He stared at the limited information for a moment more, before he back up with a swipe of his hand across the projected screen, returning to the Overwatch hub. The next few files were clerical, mostly - a standard medical procedure, assignment of quarters, inventory and skills assessment. He skimmed through them idly, already having guessed much of the information. There was a psychiatric assessment, which the cowboy had passed with flying colours; so much so that Angela had made a note in the margins of her report stating that she suspected he’d been trained to pass one.

 

_ Distrustful. Careful, cautious, calculating.  _

 

But it was hard to associate those things with the man who wandered the hallways looking lost, and scratched his chin while Satya had tried to teach him chess. It was hard to reconcile the notion of the sometimes-clumsy, easy-going McCree with someone who was thinking ahead, aware of motivations and intentions. 

 

_ But,  _ he thought, leaning back in his chair,  _ I can reconcile that with the man who stared at Lucio’s hand like it was a knife. I can reconcile that with the man who whipped around, dangerous and snarling in the laundry room.  _

It was themedia outlets all over again; two conflicting views of the same man. No matter how often he thought about it, how carefully he analyzed their interactions, Hanzo couldn’t figure out McCree. It bothred him a little bit that he was even  _ trying _ to understand, but he was interested and involved now and Hanzo Shimada did not leave things unfinished.

 

Diving into the files, there was one dated before McCree’s recruitment, with video files showing skills in combat; a recruitment proposal. More interestingly, a recruitment proposal that was partially supplemented by Athena. Odd. The computer didn’t usually suggest potential recruits, mrerely creating a pool of individuals that Overwatch agents would review and consider. In McCree’s case, the recruitment proposal seemed to be pre-written. Luckily, if he simply followed the edit history.

 

_ “The file you’ve requested is not available. Please enter password at appropriate port.” _

 

Hanzo’s hand froze next to the screen, an indent forming between his eyebrows. The edit history should’ve had the same access permissions as the rest of the file. Still, he entered his password to continue and --

 

_ “Incorrect password. Please consult your respective supervisor.” _

 

Frustration bubbled behind his forehead, and he tried a variation of the password, only to be rejected again, this time accompanied by the flare of red that lit up the screen, freezing the projection with a red glare, declaring ‘ _ RESTRICTION’ _ .

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

Grumbled Hanzo, trying to reboot the screen only to find the computer completely frozen. Even the projector hub and processor refused to respond to manual resets. This was frustrating, especially considering that he had worked rather hard to be able to understand the technology used at Overwatch; not that he was a technophobe necessarily, but he had some difficulties. Besides, asking for help with a basic search function seemed… humiliating.

 

Luckily, help came to him.

 

“Agent Hanzo, I’ve detected a technological anomaly from your computer. Might I help you?”

 

Athena’s clear voice sounded just the slightest bit annoyed; not that Hanzo blamed her. It?  _ Her,  _ his mind reminded itself, desperate to move past old prejudices. Athena was  _ not _ made to act as tech support, she ran the entirety of the Gibraltar base, constantly scouring for information and managing active missions and personnel: the last time Hanzo had needed her help, he’d managed to accidentally download some viruses onto the ports in the living quarters. Instead, he sighed again, head resting on the desk before him.

 

“Unfortunately. I’m unable to access some files here; it should be standard recruitment proposals, but I’ve never seen a restricted document like this before.”

 

There was silence for a moment on Athena’s end, and for that entire moment, he was deathly afraid he’d driven her away already, concerned she’d grown so quickly sick with his behaviour. Instead, her eloquent speech rung out once more, as sympathetic as she could be considering she believed him to be inept. 

 

“Agent Hanzo, these files are under old Overwatch protocols. I can begin to recover them, but would require you receive a second from an agent of a similar or higher standing; I would suggest Winston, considering whom you’re researching.”

 

The nice thing about Athena was that she had no judgement. Hanzo wasn’t entirely certain how sentient she was, whether or not she was capable of emotion, but some days the sarcasm in her tone was _ tangible _ in the air. So, rather than question, poke, and prod, he bowed his head a little bit, awkwardly deferring to the invisble presence of the AI/

 

“My thanks.”

 

“Of course, Agent.”

 

With that, Hanzo stood up, displacing the dragons which hid away once more, disappearing into the tattoo on his arm. Their electric buzz under his skin was a comfort when he threw on his jacket, fabric light as it brushed against where they’d hidden. It had taken some time before he was able to handle covering the dragons, and not just physically; though there could be discomfort if they were suffocated, it had been misidentified in his youth as a purely physical issues rather than the complex emotional one it had been. Still, today he had to admit that there was an itching sensation under the sleeve as he removed himself from his quarters, stride purposeful.

 

Alright. So he was perhaps paranoid regarding their newest recruit. There was a sense of general wariness around him, and some part of Hanzo was dully aware that, more likely than not, McCree was incredibly dangerous. However, the rest of him seemed to be stuck in some sort of emotional limbo regarding the man, which is probably why he was en route to Winston’s lab. It took a few minutes for the swordsman to reach it, but in that time he’d gone through a hundred excuses as to why he needed to snoop in old Overwatch files, which were considered a taboo subject in the minds of most Overwatch agents. One more turn to the right and then the lab would be at the end of a short hallway with only one other door (Winston’s room, of course). Hanzo rounded the corner with determination and pushed through -- only to nearly run face first into the chest plate of the gorilla he was searching for.

 

“Ah, Hanzo!”

 

Red covered the back of Hanzo’s neck in embarrassment, the heat searing against the lower edges of his bun. Hastily, he dipped his head in a short bow.

 

“My apologies, I should’ve paid more attention to where I was going.”

 

He didn’t have to be so stiff and formal with people but… well, he didn’t feel comfortable making familiar interactions with more than a select few people in Overwatch. Okay, mostly one person. His strict discipline is what had kept him alive so far, and though Genji often sighed and muttered about the influence the clan still had on his behaviour, those conversations were either ignored or met with anger and denial.

 

“Nonsense, no harm done!”

 

The boisterous commander meant well when he spoke, but Hanzo had always found Winston a slightly overwhelming presence. Granted, he’d not interact with the other often, but craning his neck to look up, he was reminded of the raw power he had, as well as the sharp intellect.

 

“Agent Winston, I have a favour to ask of you.”

 

The curt speech of the swordsman cut through the air leaving only tension in its wake. He knew he was far too serious, his face pinched and set like stone, but he found change elusive. In turn, Winston’s smile fell from his face, picking up on Hanzo’s sincerity. Had he the energy to care, he might have noticed the shift of the gorilla’s weight, the implied discomfort that seemed even bigger than the scientist, filling the hallway with a louder influence than he could have.

 

“Ah, of course. Would you like to -- “

 

“I would rather discuss it in your lab, yes.”

 

“Ah!  Good, uh, this way then.”

 

The two stepped into the lab (which, Hanzo supposed, Winston had just left) and it took only until Winston closed the door for Hanzo to speak, arms crossed and posture rigid, as though a rod was driven through his spine.

 

“I was researching our newest recruit, Agent McCree, and there are old Overwatch files with information I cannot access regarding him.”

 

This seemed to intrigue Winston, whose curiosity was a force of nature. The scientist made short work of grabbing the railing by Hanzo’s head and throwing himself up to the mezzanine where access to Athena was. Hanzo said nothing as he made his way up the too-small stairs to join him. By the end of the short movement, Winston was already tracing the history of Hanzo’s search, following articles like threads until he got to the most recent access attempt, and spoke aloud.

 

“Athena, I will second the attempt to open the archived Overwatch files requested.”

 

“Of course, Winston.”

 

It took no time at all for the AI to continue, a second at best and even then Hanzo figured she’d have tested a few different things.

 

“My apologies; the server housing these archives has been modified.”

 

Winston’s head tilted, and Hanzo watched him read over a systems report regarding the access attempt, flying by at a speed that made his head hurt. Honestly, he still struggled to figure out how to check his computer’s specs. But alas, the conversation continued.

 

“Initiate file recovery protocol, with the encrypted provisions and…”

 

“Shall I used the preservatory accesses?”

 

“Yes, that’d be perfect.”

 

The synchronity of the work between the scientist and the computer was impressive, and Hanzo remembered with a slight twinge of guilt that after everyone had left, Winston had been… alone. With Athena. The two of them had only had each other for company and Hanzo wasn’t certain how pleasant artificial company would be, especially for such a long time. But if nothing else, their work relationship was far superior, and the ease with which problems were addressed and solved was impressive. Just as he made this observation, Winston leaned back and rotated his chair, adjusting the thin glasses on his face with his free hand and looking both curious and pleased with him.

 

“The files should be accessible within 48 hours; someone must’ve encrypted them with unusual Overwatch modifications, and with all the system changes, Athena must’ve lost access to to the server.”

 

“Should that be possible?”

 

Wondered Hanzo, and Winston frowned, shifting black fur with a stray hand, brushing by his chin in a fluid motion, thoughtful expression creasing his eyebrows.

 

“Well, possible yes. Likely… no. To be frank, this is the first time I’ve been unable to manually override the restrictions. But the only other explanation is that someone interfered with the recruitment file and any other content regarding McCree but that seems unlikely, unless --”

 

“Unless there was something someone wanted to hide regarding our newest agent.”

 

Hanzo finished, and Winston’s frown deepened, concentration leaving creases in his expression. Hanzo wasn’t  _ wrong _ , but that led to many questions that Winston had intentions to find out, his feet tapping idly against the edge of the desk housing Athena’s access.

 

“Yes. That’s right. I’ll… start digging around. I’m rather interested either way; it’s a disadvantage not to have access to all our information, and if it  _ is _ an interference or modification place by someone I’d be interested in who, and why.”

 

Already the scientist was turning back to the computer and scouring through system logs one by one, looking for what Hanzo could only assume to be clues of some sort. An entirely juvenile thought, and with the knowledge that he would be able to access the files within 48 hours, he supposed there was nothing else he had to accomplish in the lab. He dismissed himself quickly, with a polite, “thank you” met with a thumbs up from the engrossed scientist. Yet before he could leave the lab, door sliding open before him, the scientist called out half-distracted from his new task, shocking Hanzo into a halt in the doorway.

 

“Why were you researching him, anyways?”

 

“... Just a strange feeling.”

 

Responded Hanzo, and a considerate hum answered him from the mezzanine. Well, at least he hadn’t needed any wild excuses, and maybe there’d be nothing there. If there wasn’t, then at least Winston will have broadened Athena’s accessability and resources.

 

Still, he couldn’t help but feel as though something was… off. Strange. That evening he spent some time with his brother, whose only advice was to ‘get a life’, to which Hanzo responded by tossing a nearby pillow and the entire get together devolved into wrestling. Soon enough, the issue of McCree was lost to the present, the interaction between brothers and the quiet movement towards healing their relationship.

 

\-----

 

While some things healed, others seemed to deteriorate.

 

There was a brief announcement given by Athena, announcing the arrival of Aircraft B in its respective bay, and requesting Lucio to bring a wheelchair for the transport of one injured agent. Though the wheelchair was usually a formality for those with injuries that required the on-site ‘hospital’ they had, Hanzo couldn’t help but fear for the members of the team. He pulled away from a chess game with Satya, apologizing tersely to a response of an understanding if critical nod, and headed to the docking bay with the hurried steps of someone trying not to look as anxious as they felt. The entire walk there, his head was going through panicked scenarios; who’d been injured, and how? Was it possible that Angela had been hit in the capturing of the point? Her staff could’ve petered out and left someone else unable to receive the usual boost to adrenaline and increased prothrombin activity, the highly advanced ‘healing’ factors imbued in the staff. Maybe Hana had experienced troubles with her mech and gotten injured; he knew that the girl was irked when others underestimated her, and Morrison treated her like a child rather than the trained soldier she was. Morrison, he doubted was injured; the old Strike Commander seemed almost immortal in his mind, impractically so, but even still. Then there was McCree -- could there have been a complication with the cowboy? Immediately his mind flicked to the glimpse of the prosthetic he’d seen, termination indeterminate under the cover towel he’d worn covering the metal. 

 

He wasn’t exactly relieved when he entered the docking bay. He  _ heard _ it long before he saw it; two voices raised in contrition, a conflict having broken out between two members of the strike team. Had he been a religious man, perhaps he’d have said a prayer before entering, instead stuck with the mental mantra of  _ beokaybeokaybeokay _ .

 

The large doors facing the sea were half closed, the airship parked and being prepared for land-stay. It was a smaller craft, and did not obscure Hanzo’s view of the team. Lucio was tense, hands holding the handles of the wheelchair where a weary looking Hana held her arm -- it appeared to be without blood, so he figured it was broken. Angela stood in front of both of them, combat gear still on, wings flared out as though she could act as a barrier between the two younger members and the conflict going on before them, and as poorly as Hanzo felt about not immediately going to check on Hana, he too was momentarily frozen by the interaction between the last two members of the team.

 

“She could have died!”

 

Morrison was using his booming commander’s voice, finger prodding McCree’s chestplate, the latter glaring daggers into the visor about Morrison’s eyes.

 

“Yeah, well she sure fuckin’ didn’t now did she?”

 

It was like McCree was growling, and if Hanzo thought he’d seen tension during their last meeting, that was nothing compared to this. For a moment, he could’ve sworned McCree’s eyes had flashed red, but the moment passed and he was faced with two incredibly angry, armed agents.

 

Angela was murmuring something to her communicator, but the conflict continued as Morrison took a step closer to McCree.

 

“Step down, old man,” snarled the cowboy with danger like a wave pushing his words forth.

 

“Step  _ up _ , punk. This isn’t a game, this isn’t one of your damn heists where everyone but you is expendable -- “

 

“Oh that’s fuckin’ rich!”

 

“-- and if you can’t follow orders, you’re going to kill someone and I can only hope to God it’s yourself!”

 

The crescendo ended in an outright yell, the tiniest view of veins visible in the space between his collar and his hairline. Jack Morrison was a considerable force; his guilt was a driving motivation behind much of his actions and though he was an excellent soldier, this guilt tended to result in risky behaviour, bossiness, and an overprotective streak. 

 

He should’ve realized the two wouldn’t get along.

 

But Hanzo didn’t say anything -- not before Angela did. Her voice, clear and commanding, cut across the bay and demanded to be attended to. 

 

“Enough! If you’re going to fight like children, do it elsewhere. I’ll not have you bickering when the mission was a success.”

 

“Angela,” began Jack, softer, and if Hanzo wasn’t still alive and breathing, perhaps he’d have thought with a touch of guilt.

 

“No. That’s enough. Go debrief.”

 

She sounded tired, and when her eyes met Hanzo’s she smiled wearily. Ah, perhaps she had been the driving force behind the peace for the length of the mission. He wouldn’t be surprised. Instead of focusing on it, he let his eyes flicked over to the two confrontational men, McCree not so much as twitching before Morrison turned on his heel and stormed out. A glance to his right confirmed his suspicions -- more team members had gathered. Satya wasn’t present, but Oxton and Winston were, Zenyatta and Genji off near a doorway, discussing something judging by the tilt in their heads. Reinhardt seemed to be more solemn than usual, before moving to follow Morrison as the latter departed. Lucio finished saying something to Hana as Angela approached McCree, her wings retracting to their idle position. Hanzo began to walk towards Hana when Angela spoke again.

 

“Agent McCree, you were injured during the mission, with your permission, I’d like to treat you.”

 

Hanzo slowed then, eavesdropping with more than a little shame. McCree inclined his head, dipping his head politely to the doctor as though she hadn’t just disciplined him like a bratty child.

 

“Nah doc, that’s alright. Just the rustbucket what got dinged, ‘nd I’ve done more than my fair share o’repair on it if you get my drift.”

 

The casual slang was back and not for the first time Hanzo was almost impressed with the speed and ease that McCree had switching from one demeanour to the next. Judging by the concern etched into Angela’s expression, she too had finally caught on.

 

“That being the case, I am Overwatch’s medic and have the  _ materials _ to --”

 

“I said I’m fine, doc.”

 

There was more tension in that statement, and Hanzo was reminded of showing McCree to his room, of the sharpness that had settled there. Even as he settled next to Hana, who nodded to assure him of her wellbeing, his mind was partially with Angela and McCree still listening.

 

“Agent McCree, I really do think -- “

 

“Do ya? Do ya fucking think?! ‘Cause so far as I seen, y’all ain’t got two brain cells to rub together. I don’t want yer fucking pity and I don’t want yer fuckin’ help, so get it through that thick skull o’yours and leave me alone!”

 

The booming voice was all fire and brimstone, and Hanzo’s hand twitched with the need to be around a sword. There was a moment of silence in which Angela’s face shifted, from agape with shock to enraged, the transition smooth and sudden. McCree stood before her, chest heaving with anger, one fist clenched and his prosthetic hand still, hidden under the red fabric he wore about his shoulders. He looked half-mad - no. He looked feral. Like a wild thing, and for a moment Hanzo could feel the desert heat, could see the red glint in his eyes. 

 

Then, clear as a bell, a slap rang out across the loading bay, a red splotch spread across McCree’s cheek where Angela’s hand had left a print. She stared at him like stone, certain in her actions and stoic. Her finger lifted up and pointed accusingly at McCree, whose wide-eyed stare communicated his confusion, his bewilderment. Certainly, it was a little odd to see the petite Swiss act violently, but Hanzo knew her to be assertive when necessary, and this was… more than a little necessary. McCree was out of hand, but the shock of Angela’s smack seemed to shock him out of it. Before anyone could say anything, McCree was practically running out of the room, too many eyes watching him as he left. The uncomfortable heat was gone, the air of the desert away, so suddenly that Hanzo figured he’d just imagined it.

 

Angela walked by Hana, Lucio, and him with a nod and a request for Hana to be brought to the medical bay for an x-ray, before she excused herself. Hanzo didn’t doubt she needed a moment to collect herself after that shitshow, and to be quite frank, his mind’s eye was scrolling through the charges McCree was accused of. Once more he was given conflicting information, and if he was acting poorly on missions, perhaps he wasn’t a good fit for the team, perhaps he wasn’t --

 

“ _ Hanzo. _ ”

 

Hana was getting his attention, legs crossed and good arm propping up her head on the wheelchair. She’d long since stopped trying to get out of the mandatory precaution of the chair, and lounged in it like it was one of those beanbags she had in her quarters. Hanzo leaned over when her outstretched finger beckoned him closer, and as he got close, she spoke.

 

“He saved my life.”

 

“Morrison?”

 

The girl pulled a face.

 

“No, ew, granddad didn’t save my ass. Cowboy did; came out of cover and got shot to cover for me when my mech’s mainline was hit.”

 

Hanzo’s eyebrows rose a little too high, and he was poked in the stomach by Hana’s wagging finger.

 

“You know how rare it is for my mech to be broken down like that. I’ll make some modifications -- but right then and there, 76 was off at the point and Angela supporting him. McCree was supposed to stay in cover, and he risked his life to clear the area long enough for me to fix the mainline. He got  _ shot _ for me.”

 

Hanzo sighed, unsure how this information would affect his view of the cowboy. Besides…

 

“You don’t know his motivations, he could’ve --”

 

Her good hand grabbed Hanzo’s wrist where it sat above his hand, resting on the handle of the wheelchair. He froze at the intensity of her stare, the weight with which the young woman stared at him.

 

“Hanzo. He shot seven men. With a six shooter.”

 

He felt the air leave his lungs as she leaned in conspiratorially, whispering,

 

“Hanzo. I could feel the desert when he shot. His eyes  _ glowed. _ ”

 

Then she pulled away, reclining in the seat as Lucio jogged back from escorting Angela out. He waved to Hanzo with a smile unfazed on his face, but Hanzo… had a lot to think about. His eyes flicked towards the door McCree had left through, lip abused between his teeth as he was left alone in the bay to think over the shitstorm he’d just seen. What actions had to come next were, in some part, a mystery to him, and he sighed slightly. Something difficult had to be done.

 

\---

 

He found McCree sitting on the edge of the cliffs, and for a very brief moment, he was terrified. But the other seemed settled, unmoving and tense on the edge of the Gibraltar cliffs. Smoke furled in delicate twists and gentle motions, framing the silhouette of the cowboy as he sat alone against the sunsetting past the cliffs, red fabric fading into the sunset.

 

“C’n I help you, swordsman?”

 

There was a challenge in the words, and Hanzo didn’t let it faze him. His hand fell to his side, where the sword usually laid. Like this, it was easier; McCree was facing away, aware but cocky (or perhaps tired) enough not to glance behind him. Hanzo did not stop in his motion, determined and made up with his decision, committed to what was to come.

 

It wasn’t until he was close enough to act that McCree turned around, bristling in preparation for what was to come. This short a range, his rifle would be nigh useless -- luckily he had a back-up. He whipped out Peacekeeper, aiming the gun directly between the eyes of the swordsman. Instead of turning around and seeing a sword about to separate his head from his shoulders, he saw Hanzo in civvies, holding out a bottle of whiskey. A moment of silence passed before McCree holstered the gun, tensing his shoulders as though to hide himself from the other.

 

“Didn’t take you for a drinking man.”

 

Hanzo sat next to McCree, still holding out the bottle that the cowboy seemed ready to ignore, puffing at his cigarette instead. With a sigh, Hanzo adjusted to rest on his knees, still somewhat formal as he settled in. The whiskey was placed between them, a respectable distance between the men. It took a moment before McCree grabbed the bottle and down a good amount.

 

“I’m not.”

 

Hanzo finally responded, and McCree didn’t look to him, listening as he swirled the amber liquid in the bottom of the bottle. It seemed the cowboy was reluctant to say anything, so Hanzo closed his eyes, breathing deeply, feeling the remnants of the sun as it set in the distance, warmth fading with the passage of time.

 

“You… just gonna sit there, all quiet like?”

 

Ah, uncertainty took over the cowboy’s tone, and Hanzo hummed in response, not opening his eyes. He didn’t see a point in speaking just yet; the American would work out a few things on his own before Hanzo needed to speak. So, with a little more time passing, the sniper shifted uneasily, taking another drink.

 

“I don’t know what you want from me, ain’t got anything to tell ya.”

 

There it was, the challenge again.

 

“I don’t desire anything from you, cowboy.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

An eyebrow lifted, and Hanzo opened his eyes, flicked his brown gaze to the snarling cowboy next to him. McCree was pointing an accusatory finger towards him, and the swordsman chuckled lightly.

 

“Do you always assume the worst of others?”

 

“Well, ain’t that just a pa --”

 

“No, listen to me, cowboy.”

 

Hanzo raised his hand, effectively cutting off the other’s words, forcing him to listen as he spoke. He took on a sharpness that was characteristic of him, a precision that cut out the dilly-dallying with an efficiency not unlike his swords. He narrowed his gaze at the other, pursing his lips and regarding him with brutality that was nondescript and overall. 

 

“We are not here to attack you, nor am I here to take advantage of you. I am here not to hurt you, but to help you.”

 

But McCree wasn’t letting him go that easily.

 

“Ain’t no such thing as altruism, swordsman.”

 

“Then I’m no altruist -- simply a man who wishes to sit upon the edge of a cliff and look out to the sunset.”

 

McCree scoffed, rolling his eyes before staring at the bottle in his hand, drinking again. He took to the bottle every here and there, and finally, finally, the cowboy passed it back to Hanzo, who reached to his other side, getting out a couple glasses and choosing to pour the drink rather than swigging from the bottle. He side-eyed McCree as though to say ‘this is how civilized people drink’. Yet the cowboy took the glass calmly, and huffed, taking a sip and acting less like the world was going to end if he didn’t down the bottle in its entirety.

 

“May I ask you a question?”

 

“Reckon you will regardless.”

 

Hanzo hummed, noncommittally, and nodded.

“Perhaps. Why did you not go to your room? Why come to the cliffs?”

 

McCree paused, looking out to the sunset, and when he spoke it was without the bite, just the ever-present growl that Hanzo had begun to associate with his well-being. After a moment, the cowboy rolled back his shoulders, leaning on a hand propped up behind him.

 

“If you’re worried I’s gonna jump, y’er wrong.”

 

Hanzo stuttered for a moment in his motions, bringing the glass to his lips to take a sip, and he wondered how he’d been able to tell the implied concern in his tone. But McCree shrugged and filled the silence, as he was wont to do.

 

“Thought about it before, but never really. Nothin’ serious, just…”

 

“Idle thoughts.”

 

Hanzo amended, looking over the heights and understanding, for the first time, a portion of McCree. He understood the need, the impulse, and the dangerous ‘what if’ statements that could end in the death of the self. The quiet resignation that McCree took on seemed meditative, and glancing over to him, Hanzo… thought. He thought on the way the fading sun was cast warmly against the man’s face, jaw tight and muscles tense just from having company, but something profoundly lost in his eyes. Soft brown eyes that traced the horizon, and betrayed the extent to which the cowboy was out of his depth, the extent to which he found himself utterly alone. And maybe that was part of the problem; the other was alone. Different in his abilities and sensibilities, lost both on a team and in civilization. Hanzo waited a moment longer before he stood, leaving the bottle and the cowboy’s glass.

 

“You leavin’?”

 

He tried to keep his voice steady, but Hanzo had spent too long bottling up his own pleas not to recognize a hidden one. The night would be upon them soon, and with a last look out to the sea, the swordsman nodded.

 

“Of course. But, should I find some more of this American whiskey, I doubt I’ll be able to finish it myself.”

 

He cast an opening, and McCree brought up a knee, looking up at the Shimada with unreadable eyes.

 

“Well, I reckon I could help you with that.”

  
Hanzo chuckled, and agreed. But no more words were needed, and though he was tired enough to make bed a illustrious desire, he found himself with an odd ache in his chest as he left the cowboy to his cliffs, a bottle of Jack left in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: betrayal and questions.


	6. Enemy Unidentified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes we cannot identify our greatest enemies; they come in many shapes and sizes, the sharp report of a gunshot, or the gentle touch of a lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the tardiness. May long weekend followed by graduation week has me scrambling.

Somehow what had been a haphazard attempt to pull one man back from the brink of destruction turned into a regular event, finding two men with less-than-wholesome pasts gathered on the edges of cliffs, the landscapes they’d long since danced with idle thoughts of maddening promise, kissing death on the lips as lightly as possible. But the places that once held grim promises were now home to another sensation. Every other night, like clockwork, the samurai and the sniper found themselves side by side, brushing shoulders and sharing tales like life pouring from loosened tongues, mostly aided by the burn of sake or whiskey on backs of tongues and down doused throats. Like a living thing, it began to grow; nights spent drinking turned into stolen smiles in the hallways, a tip of the hat here, a clever smirk there. Their little secret friendship, hidden not out of fear of discovery but rather the fear of having it crumple under the harsh light of day, began to strengthen as the weeks passed. Hanzo found himself… changing too. Along with the blossoming friendship, he was growing out of old habits and into new ones. Eating alone happened with a lessening frequency, with his meals now spent with Satya, or Hana, or even Angela and Genji. He found his silence filled with conversation, the slow and quiet kind mostly but interrupted by rapid fire exchanges, pulls into mischief and pranks (he’d never forget the time he’d been forced to stand guard while Hana switched Lucio’s music with old country songs from the 20 th century. He still wasn’t sure how she’d gotten her hands on that) and a sense of… belonging.

 

When he brought this up to Satya, she simply scoffed, moving her knight to A4 and capturing his rook. 

 

“You’ve been a part of Overwatch since Recall, and even longer before that. Haven’t you ever given thought to the fact that perhaps you are  _ meant _ to feel as though you belong?”

 

And like usual, her statements of fact delivered with very little emotional softening (if there was any at all) managed to force his mouth shut after holding it agape for but a moment. For a few seconds afterwards, he’d deeply considered giving her a careful retort, but in his heart of hearts, he knew that he’d deserved that much. And probably more.

 

(And later, when he inevitably lost, Mizu would simply suggest in his near-solemn tone that Hanzo pay more attention to the moves being made on the board. The way the dragon would suggest such led the swordsman to believe that more than just his chess-skills were being judged by his spiritual companion.)

 

But peace was never so kind as to remain, and the universe tended to resist stagnation. Hanzo didn’t have particularly vivid dreams, nor could he boast being greatly in touch with his inner self, so maybe it wasn’t odd that it had taken him as long as it had to realize what had changed in his relationship with McCree. It hadn’t happened while they were drinking, but rather when the two of  them had settled in for the night, Hanzo with a book and McCree next to him with an action movie playing idly on the screen. Though they both had begun to occupy the same spaces without needing to be inebriated, there was still a curl in Hanzo’s gut at being this close to the cowboy, his legs propped casually over McCree’s (because, as he’d argue, he had been lying on the couch first and the insufferable cowman just  _ had _ to lift his legs and sit underneath them). Still, the time they spent together was always being tested, both parties carefully not to dive too deep into waters unknown. Tonight though, it seemed McCree was full of questions, and it was a (welcome) distraction from the reading he was attempting to do. To keep up appearances, Hanzo refused to lower the book, but his attention was drawn to the warmth under his legs, the sounds of the man next to him, and the very odd feeling of fluttering in his legs whenever they brushed against the other. McCree, for his part, was not helping: he rested his chin on Hanzo’s knees and the warmth spread to his chest too.

 

“So, if you had to pick any other weapon besides a sword, what would it be?”

 

It was the twentieth round of such questions at  _ least _ , but Hanzo was humoured by the persistence of the American and responded with only a moment’s hesitation.

 

“The bow -- it is another traditional weapon my family had taught me, though I preferred the sword.”

 

“Hmph.”

 

“Eloquent.”

 

Hanzo’s last dry comment had McCree snorting his half-laugh and suddenly Hanzo’s entire mouth seemed to be a desert unto itself. His nose buried itself in his book to avoid the red flush on his cheeks being seen, and as though in retribution for being so provoked into a feeling of embarrassment, the samurai raised his voice to try and seem a little more commanding than he currently felt.

 

“Might I ask why you feel the urge to pry so severely into my affairs?”

 

It came out far harsher than Hanzo intended, but he still got a smile in return, if a slightly more somber one. This slight change in temperament inspired him to put down his book, hazarding a prolonged look at the almost shameful expression knitting McCree’s eyebrows together. One of Jesse’s fingers circled idly on Hanzo’s knee, and it was far too quiet for far too long before the cowboy would speak, half hiding his face away in hopes of… something indiscernible for Hanzo to pick up on.

 

“Well, just’n case y’er ever wanting a… certain someone to join in on those, uh… affairs.”

 

The voice was so quiet Hanzo barely heard it, but his heart leaped wildly as the whispered words blew past chapped lips, dancing above his knee where he could almost feel the shudder of uncertainty in the other man’s tone. Jesse’s eyes remained locked on where his finger traced circle after circle on Hanzo’s knee, a look not unlike guilt and anxiety planting itself firmly on the cowman’s expression. A small piece of Jesse’s lip was pulled between nervous teeth, and the dry sensation in Hanzo’s mouth was suddenly joined by an all-pervading warmth, a pull to move closer and a shock that rendered him unmoving. He wanted to say something, to move, to throw himself forwards and demand an explanation of what that meant because maybe, just maybe, it was some sort of idiom or expression he didn’t understand. Maybe McCree didn’t mean what Hanzo thought he meant, and the horror of being turned down churned his gut unpleasantly, emotions already stirred by the unusual situation. After the few seconds he had lain paralyzed, Hanzo’s voice decided to rejoin him with only the slightest waver present in his tone, emotion driven out with fear that he’d be reprimanded for perceived reciprocation to what in truth wasn’t at all a suggestion for anything more intimate.

 

“What?”  _ Oh gods above Hanzo use your words!  _ “What do you mean?”

 

Maybe it’d been the wrong thing to say, because McCree looked  _ gutted _ , the colour draining from his face as much as it could, sunkissed expression putting off a more hollow aura. As though he was discouraged, or worse, the American stumbled a little bit as he pulled himself off their shared seat, and Hanzo was ramrod straight in a moment, back tense with the forced posture.

 

“McCree --  _ Jesse _ !”

 

A wave of a tanned hand silenced him and the cowboy gathered his hat and placed it on his head, tipping down the front to hide his face rather effectively in shadow.

 

“S’nothing Hanzo. Just pryin’ more’n I shoulda been.”

 

He didn’t buy it for a second, and his hand darted out to catch the retreating figure before he could go too far. If nothing else, McCree seemed shocked by it, but… more than anything he looked tense. His shoulders drew up and Hanzo could hear the strain in his breath, as though any wrong move would be the absolute end of his existence, his life. He felt like he was approaching a scared animal of some sort, trying to erase from his mind the look of a wild coyote in the eyes of the man before him, trying not to think of the desert heart on his back and the dust in the air all those weeks ago. Right now, the cowboy seemed more… tense than anything. Fearful even. Not bristling with defensive gestures, just yearning to leave.

 

“Don’t. It was something, and -- if… you still would like to consider something. Something  _ more _ , just… let me know. Please.”

 

Whether or not the plea got through to him was left to be unknown, the cowboy hesitated for only a moment more before his final departure. But nearly imperceptibly, the shoulders of the man seemed to drop a little and the exchange of air sounded less like he was breathing through a grater and more like he had a pair of functioning lungs. Still, it took Hanzo another few minutes to finally gather his book and head back to his room.

 

 

 

And still, their meetings continued after that.They brought with them a new air of something, the air of… hope, maybe. The sensation of trees ready to blossom but not yet opening up their buds, the cautious testing of the waters in regards to a new aspect of their relationship. This way, as time passed, Hanzo could feel heat on his neck whenever McCree was around, could feel fluttering in his stomach whenever the other leaned in closer, or brushed against him. And while he was no mind reader, the samurai was certain that something had changed within McCree as well: Jesse would now find excuses to brush against Hanzo, would toy with his lip between his teeth, would fidget with the lobe of his ear or the brim of his hat. Once, on an occasion that had nearly blown up Hanzo’s attempts at discretion, Jesse had been breaking records in the shooting range when he’d dedicated a round to Hanzo, and maybe it said something about the state they were in that Hanzo had been remarkably flattered.

 

In all, they still met, but with renewed purpose. Now, the dances were more elaborate, the gentle teasing into new territory so terrifying but exhilarating too. Movie nights became a regular occurrence, and while Hanzo preferred feel-good films and documentaries as opposed to McCree’s action binges (‘You literally do this for a living,” he’d mentioned one night, only to receive a puppy dog face in return, McCree protesting that, “yeah, but George Java and Actor 176 are fuckin’ golden in this one!”) and slight western obsession, the two of them could agree on sci-fi and fantasy as a common interest. So one night, curled up on the couch as per usual with some new film on the space-time continuum and a colony of earthlings on an exogalactic planet, Hanzo had found himself tracing instead of McCree, practically laying on top of him while the both of them attempted to pretend that this was anything but purposeful.

 

Right now, while the movie had hit a dull point, Hanzo’s eyes followed the paths his fingers found in tattoos, names and patterns, symbols. Some of them were simply odd (he’d found a discreet flaming taco on McCree’s ankle one day and had spent the rest of said day questioning his tastes) and others felt heavier, the ones that obviously took days upon days to complete. His hands had finished caressing the rough skin under a cactus flower when he began to play his own little game, not unlike McCree’s previous neverending questions.

 

“What’s this one?”

 

He asked, thumb brushing over a set of roman numerals, and McCree smiled sadly.

 

“Date my mama passed.”

 

He explained, to nothing but a nod from Hanzo and a bones deep understanding of the depths behind the placidity of McCree’s tone. He followed up the limb, pushing up the sleeve of the plaid that McCree wore, humming as he stopped on a larger tattoo, this time of a coyote silhouetted against the moon.

 

“And this?”

 

“ _ Ma’ii _ \-- the coyote. It’s… a reminder. And some good luck too.”

 

Hanzo lingered on the coyote, if only to comment very briefly,

 

“For a man who loves the sound of his own voice, you are frustratingly vague.”

 

That was enough to encourage a bout of rough laughter from McCree, his chest rumbling as he did so, a sensation that rocked through the both of them where they lay cautiously intertwined, the far-off sounds of conversation not bothering them for the time being. There was a games night that once in awhile inspired loud outbursts from the big games room, but in this room they existed within their own bubble, and much to Hanzo’s frustration, McCree said not a word in return. Instead, Hanzo sat up, or at least moved his weight back onto his knees, breaking the contact enough to stare at McCree directly. Not for the first time, he saw more in the brown eyes looking back than he believed he was meant to see. There was a sense of caution yes, but of something far more profound that Hanzo could only guess at. Hurt, maybe -- judging by the lowered eyelids, he was in thought, the way that Jesse’s hand still laid warmly over his own… affection. But more too. For some reason the mood shifted, and with a dry mouth Hanzo went back to his tattoo-quest, carefully sliding his hand up to rest on the neck of the other, the edges of ink visible from the undone button of his shirt. Yet as his fingers stopped there, Jesse’s breath hitched just enough to be noticeable, and the sharp-eyed swordsman caught the strain in his motions. It… should’ve been a hint not to ask, but instead Hanzo pushed further. His own anxiety compelled him to ask, though he couldn’t be sure if it was just nerves or the unsettled dragons in the back of his head that churned at the next course of action.

 

“And this one?”

 

“Pick another one, Hanzo.”

 

The reply was hoarse, and tired. The room was heavier, air thick against his skin, hairs raising as he contemplated pushing it further or simply surrendering to the absolute  _ emotion _ in McCree’s tone. He slid his hand up, memorizing the texture of the other’s skin, not for the first time marvelling at their proximity. He couldn’t meet Jesse’s eyes though, not when he could feel the pleas there, the vulnerability, and Hanzo should’ve stopped there. He should’ve stopped. Fear demanded he proceed -- fear of the unknown, fear of betrayal. Fear.

 

“Why?”

 

“I can’t tell you about that one.”

 

“ _ Why? _ ”

 

The tension grew, muscles taught on McCree’s arm, the prosthetic limb gripping onto the couch and making the fabric whine in protest. Still, fear from both parties thickened the air they breathed, whispered electricity where skin touched skin, and left static buzzing between their faces, which grew closer with slow movements.

 

“Can’t do that Hanzo. Not when you -- … when we’re…”

 

The breathlessness told him everything he needed to know, and Hanzo finally looked up again, done memorizing the sunned skin of the man he leaned up against and instead losing himself in a face wracked with grief. Carefully, his one hand still caught up in McCree’s flesh hand, he’d raise the other to try and trace the other’s face, rough stubble and beard all friction beneath his fingertips.Just a little bit closer, and they’d be able to feel the other’s breath against their own lips, just a little bit closer and --

 

“Hey brother, I just won for the sixth -- oh my  _ goooood _ .”

 

The downside to belonging to a family of ninjas and samurai laid in the absolute silence they tended to offer whenever moving. So, with his preoccupation lying in the proximity of his face to McCree’s, Hanzo hadn’t so much as heard the sliding door open until Genji had rushed into the room, crayon markings all over his mask in green and pink and what appeared to be a bowl full of M&Ms in his hand. Before he could so much as  _ think _ about cursing out Genji for his untimely interruption, McCree had mumbled something frantic and adjusted his hat, slipping past Genji to escape the room and the obvious discovery.

 

As soon as the door closed and it was just Genji and Hanzo, the former’s faceplate already lifted to accommodate candies being tossed into his own mouth, Genji managed to give a little ‘huh’, eyes stuck on the door.

 

“Well. You were about to make out with cowboy, hey brother? I knew you were getting close, hm?”

 

Before Genji’s tease could even near being finished, an enraged Hanzo had pushed himself off the couch, deciding that now was the time to engage in battle with his brother to the death. 

 

(Later that night, Genji had agreed to giving Hanzo all his M&Ms for the next three nights, and still the elder brother was only marginally sated. He was still rather ill about the whole thing.)

 

 

It didn’t particularly help that McCree had disappeared of the face of the planet afterwards, not speaking to Hanzo for a few days. The only sign of life he’d seen from the other was glimpses as he disappeared behind corners, into his room, and once Hanzo could swear he’d disappeared into a vent and how he’d managed that was anyone’s guess really. Still, it didn’t stop Hanzo from acting grim about it all, and though he’d deny any allegations that he was ‘moping’ he certainly couldn’t fool everyone around him. As Ao had so lovingly pointed out the other day, he ‘ _ looked like someone had stuck decade old gabo vegetables into his ass and left it there to fester _ ’. And okay, maybe she had a point there but he didn’t think it was  _ that _ bad until Satya finally demanded he smarten up.

 

“Alright. Your moping is beginning to turn the chessboard blue; explain yourself, Shimada.”

 

He could practically feel his imaginary hackles raising, bottom lip jutting out in what was definitely not a pout. Of course not.

 

“There’s nothing to explain.”

 

He grumbled, moving his pawn to D4, only to have it captured a moment later as Satya countered.

 

“Bullshit, as one might put it. I used a metaphor and asked after your emotional being, social protocol requires you to answer me so that I may be less burdened by your…”

 

She trailed off, simply gesturing in a fluid motion towards all of Hanzo. A part of him hated that she was right. Scratch that, he just straight up hated that she was right. Still, he couldn’t escape her sharp gaze and eventually he buckled under her silent pressure, not seeing the point in arguing with her when she always,  _ always _ won. 

 

“I… upset McCree the last time we spoke and his absence has been weighing on me.”

 

His admittance was met with an unreadable expression and a sharp ‘hm’ as Satya sacrificed a piece to Hanzo’s strategy. For the duration of the pregnant pause, Hanzo swept his eyes over the board and realized with a dull disinterest that he was bound to lose this game as well. A heavy sigh escaped him as he chose the route that would prolong his miserable existence on the chess board.

 

“I don’t think you should trust him, Hanzo.”

 

She stated rather simply, and his head jerked up in response. Yet on Satya’s face there was only sincerity, the most severe of expressions, and her eyes stared back at him as though daring him to contradict her.

 

“I -- could you please explain?”

 

A breath escaped her nose in a huff, proclaiming that while she  _ could _ , she would rather not. Still, Satya was nothing if not a reluctant friend, and she eventually began to explain herself with the slow considerate tone that took most of her words throughout life.

 

“It’s because of our chess game.”

 

“When you beat him?”  Hanzo questioned, leaning forwards until his knuckles brushed the table in between the two of them, forgetting the game below. Yet something dissatisfied crossed Satya’s face and her hands folded neatly in her lap, lips pursed together until the skin around them lightened just a tad.

 

“When he let me win.” 

 

Impossible. Hanzo had seen McCree playing and the fool had hummed and haww’d, unsure of his movements and playing into traps or avoiding them through sheer dumb luck. But before he could claim otherwise, Satya continued to explain herself.

 

“I’ve thought about his behaviour over the past couple of months. None of us know more about him than he has chosen to reveal, not even you Hanzo. He has tested each of us several times however -- watched Ms. Song in her tournaments as well as her mechanical maintenance over her mech, tested my patterns of thought and strategy through chess and my design process, sparred against so many of us that I’d be surprised if our fighting styles aren’t memorized by him now.”

 

The severity of her tone led Hanzo to recall the laundry incident, the way he’d been turned on like a wild dog, the snarl on Jesse’s face, the way he’d covered up half his body in a towel, physically hiding away.

 

“We know he’s dangerous, that he’s been an outlaw for some time. We know he has extensive crimes -- I know even  _ you _ have had your doubts about his intentions.”

 

He thought of the grief in the other man’s face, the loss of breath and the jarring movement as though he were fleeing from the light of day the last time they’d seen each other. Trouble bunched together his eyebrows, and anxiety clawed in his guts, the dragons quiet and listening. Considering.

 

“Am I wrong?” she finished, waiting for a response in the same poised posture of before. And though his heart sank into his stomach and began to be worn away by the acid there, he couldn’t lie about this, not to Satya and not to himself.

 

“No. You’re not.”

 

 

 

The unfortunate events that transpired next had Hanzo regretting having ever brought up his concerns. 

 

_ “Alert; the base has been breached on the southern perimeter. A squad of ten is headed in formation towards the south-west entry. Locking all doors.”  _

 

Athena’s tone woke them in the night, but with the rushed movements of one thoroughly trained and prepared to act, Hanzo was dressed with his swords and other weapons ready to go in a matter of moments. He’d no sooner stepped out into the hallway than had the main lights extinguished, replaced by the eerie red glow of the floor-markers. Someone must’ve begun dark-night protocol. Across the hall, Genji stepped out in his battle attired, his own swords prepared as well. Together, the two brothers began to make their way to the Western corridor, Hanzo transmitting their direction to team members. In response, Morrison’s voice crackled through the comms and into their ears.

 

_ “Dark-night protocol has begun; the squad of ten has entered the building in the southwest entrance. Agents Hanzo and Genji are en route to intercept in the western corridor, Agent Mei has the approval to seal off the northern access corridor. Agent Mercy is manning the eastern corridor with Agents Reinhardt and D.va. No read on Agent McCree -- does anyone have eyes on McCree?” _

 

Maybe had he not been focused on adjusting his eyes to the environment, he would’ve noticed the suspicion in Morrison’s tone, but instead he simply moved, transitioning into a crouch where the western corridor intersected with the entryway of the southern door. There was only one problem with this plan.

 

“Agent 76, negative contact on hostiles.”

 

Genji twisted his head and brushed armoured finger over his visor, to which Hanzo shook his head, confirming that neither of them could see anyone. Which was odd, considering that the door had been recently opened. 

 

_ “Affirmative. Proceed with caution, hostiles are off-grid. _ ”

 

Unsettling, certainly. With slow steps, Hanzo moved into the entry lobby, listening as the two other detachments concurred, all agreeing that there was negative contact. That was impossible -- the squadron couldn’t appear and disappear without any trace, and Athena wasn’t wrong about these sorts of things, programmed to respond to specific stimuli and --

 

\--  _ BANG! _

 

The sharp report of a gunshot sounded from far away from the entryway, and the gut feeling that something was wrong decided to explode along with the noise, alerting him to the unperceived danger elsewhere in the building. Immediately his comm buzzed with the collective confusion of several agents, while finally someone actually mentioned something worthwhile. Satya’s voice came up over the line and Hanzo moved as soon as he heard it.

 

_ “-- I repeat, Athena’s systems compromised, team of hostiles in the building, northwest wing. Agent Winston, they’re trying to access Athena’s main hub.”  _

 

The sound of gunshots echoed the hallways after the initial noises over the comm link. Before Soldier could demand backup in the Northwest wing, those teams gathered by the southern wing were rushing to go there. Luckily, some agents had already spread about the building, meaning Athena’s hubs weren’t entirely unguarded, but this still was incredibly bad news to them. To think that someone had interfered with their security system to such an extent -- 

 

\-- but the time for that was later. Now was the time for elimination or neutralization, in no particular order. The sounds of fighting crescendoed until hanzo was in the thick of it, with a team of twenty hostiles strategically posted outside Winston’s labs. All the main entries were blocked off, and a firefight in the slightly wider hallway was still too much in so little a space. Hanzo’s talents were better off in close quarters, and he understood this even as he took cover next to Lena, whose guns radiated heat from firing.

 

“Hanzo! Love, there’s another way into Winnie’s lab. If you can manage it, there’s an overhead panel that comes out into the lab above the main hub and you should be able to squeeze in. Maybe.”

 

The uncertainty was punctuated by the sharp  _ pop-pop-pop _ of her arms discharging into the equally defended infiltrators, who had bunkered down considerably by now. He hesitated for but a moment to ask, “are you sure?” and when the Brit nodded in the affirmative, a small salute given to him, he bolted out of cover and made a dash for the electrical panel. A small space between inner and outer walls allowed for storage of necessary sensors and other technological equipment and he soon find himself worming through the darkness, using mostly the pervading sounds of gunshots and shouts to find his way through the small space into the lab. He could hear very little in the lab itself, and dropped out just on the opposite side of the room, the overhead above the main hub too cluttered with wires to be navigable. The padding of the walls, the technology nudged in between the rooms, it all left the lab silent save for the quietest murmur of conflict sneaking through the door. But not a moment could be spared, because while he certainly hadn’t expected an easy entrance, he’d expected what he saw even less.

 

There appeared to be a western depiction of death before him, cloaked in black with the edge of a white mask visible from where Hanzo was. His breath could not be taken from him though, as battle coursed through his veins and he knew the feeling more intimately than he knew sensations of pain or desire. No, he was across the room faster than the hostile could turn around, a horizontal sweep of his sword aimed perfectly to slice the unknown enemy at the knees and disable him. But as the glinting metal drove through, intending to strike flesh, only smoke and the quiet tightening of Hanzo’s jaw answered the strike. Where his opponent once stood was nothing and he looked around in surprise, finding the spectre standing grimly not four feet behind him. But as his eyes caught the enemy so too did they catch the drawn shotgun levelled at him, and only with immense luck and reflexes did he manage to duck below the brunt of the shot, receiving some damage to his neck as he rolled to the right. His motions were followed with successive discharges, the stranger  _ growling _ under his breath. Hanzo found temporary refuge behind an overturned lab bench, but bullets punched into the metal threatening to break through to the other side.

 

Neither of the fighters spoke, and as there was a brief lull in shots, Hanzo whipped out a  _ horokubiya _ , its small form zipping across to the feet of his enemy where it exploded with a flash and a loud protest. Prepared, Hanzo had already begun moving, and by the time the spectre of death had recovered (mere seconds, which was impressive) he had scaled the small divide between the mezzanine and the main floor of the lab. Whatever the spectre was doing here, it needed to be stopped -- and by the looks of things, a foreign data device was inserted into Athena manually. Off the grid; smart, though he had no time to appreciate the less traceable tactics of his opponent in their entirety. Instead, Hanzo ripped out the data device, woefully inept at technology and praying to whatever spirits were listening that the brute force method would work. Almost immediately, he stomped on the device, coinciding with the arrival of the spectre on the mezzanine, who simply growled at seeing the destroyed device and rather quickly smashed Hanzo’s head into the main hub before the other could react, leaving him dazed. Knocked onto his back, Hanzo would watch with dread as the man levelled the shotgun once more, appearing like two of them thanks to his visual disorientation and the busted nose he surely had now. But a Shimada didn’t face death with fear, and a fierce rage boiled up in him, his eyes daring the man to pull the trigger.

 

A gunshot went off. 

 

Hanzo’s face remained blissfully, if surprisingly, intact. Instead, a chip was taken off of the mask (vaguely owl-like, now that he was dazed enough to actually view it rather than glare at its general direction) directly in the center, something viscous and pitch black trickling out from the hole. With a snarl, the man whipped around to face his aggressor, who was crouched on the other side of the room cowboy hat vaguely recognizable above the stoic, stony expression. He was a killer in that moment, the murderer in Hanzo seeing some part of him reflected in McCree’s face. But the certainty didn’t last, eyebrows raising on the cowboy as the spectre turned around.

 

“ _ You. _ ”

 

He breathed out, and now Hanzo was confused too, because while Jesse lined up another shot, the spectre dematerialized, smoke solidifying in front of McCree. The enemy had no gun aimed at the sniper, and with dread, even from where he was slowly dragging himself off the ground, Hanzo could sense the hesitation in the other to shoot.

 

“ _ Si, mijo _ . Never thought I’d see you working for  _ los héroes caídos.  _ Fallen a little far, haven’t you?”

 

The way that Jesse flinched brought to mind a child flinching away from punishment. The rifle lowered a little bit and the enemy drew closer to McCree, Hanzo’s heart twisting in protest.  _ Shoot,  _ he begged him, unable to speak for now,  _ shoot him McCree! _ But the mental plea went unanswered, and the opponent knelt next to Jesse, said something that made the other blanch painfully, and then disappeared like fog into the vent -- presumably the same one that McCree had entered in through. Though Hanzo’s eyes sought McCree’s, the other man settled on his knees, utterly still with a look of absolute shock and disgust on his face.

 

 

 

 

Hanzo hadn’t been expecting any of that. And later, to be frank, he hadn’t been expecting the debrief to turn to near violence. He hadn’t expected Soldier 76 to blatantly blame Jesse for the break-in, and worse of all, he didn’t expect  _ himself _ to be buying into it. Because it made sense. He hated it but it made sense.

 

“I… saw Jesse interact with this ‘Reaper’ and walk away unscathed.“ Hanzo admitted when pressed for details, and he couldn’t stand to look towards the cowboy, whose face sported a bruise from the fist Soldier had sent his way already. He could feel the cold that permeated the room from where McCree stood, silent and accepting of all things said. Even then, Hanzo couldn’t stop speaking, bringing up things he wished he wouldn’t, with anxiety wrenching him about and Ao crying out in the back of his head, begging him to stop, to stop. But it was as though he were trying to convince himself as well, convince himself that speaking up against McCree was the right thing to do.

 

“He’s proven himself to have the ability to bypass Athena’s systems,” Hanzo added, voice cold and unfeeling and if there was a God then smite him now  _ please _ . Each word cut but the right thing to do wasn’t always the easy thing, right? He kept going, others taking notes and whispering, a line of suspicion sent off in McCree’s direction.

 

“As… Ms. Vaswani has mentioned, he appears to have been scoping out our abilities and strategies. He’d lied, and kept important matters from us. But he -- I don’t think he did this. I think… there are problems, but I don’t think McCree is to blame for this infiltration.”

 

It was a weak defense, and even he was unsure of it, but the decision had to be made -- they had to decide what to do. Winston took over, and maybe that was the only reason that McCree wasn’t dropped or imprisoned on the spot, a victim of Soldier’s focused rage, his anger against McCree specifically. But instead, it was Winston’s voice that raised itself, calmer than the others but no less bothered by the situation.

 

“Due to a lack of evidence, but presence of ability and suspicion, I will propose a temporary suspension of Agent McCree’s status, and a probation with terms regarding curfew, association, and questioning relating to past crimes and the relationship of one Jesse McCree to identified Talon Agent Reaper.”

 

The suggestions by the scientist were agreed with on a wide scale, with a few agents arguing that stricter conditions be met and a couple (Hanzo included) not participating in the decision. He couldn’t, not really -- he snuck a glance to McCree and saw stone in his eyes, a faraway look like he’d resigned himself to his fate. He couldn’t understand what the other was feeling, couldn’t read into the other’s expression, and with a lump in his throat he realized that McCree’s nails were digging into his own hand, the strain lightening the skin around the indents. He felt sick.

 

“It is agreed; this meeting is adjourned. Agent McCree please surrender all weapons and identification. Do you agree to carry a probation chip inserted subcutaneously for the length of your probation and suspension?”

 

Hanzo’s stomach cried out, but a stoic McCree nodded once. Winston, with a frown over his own expression, gestured to Angela, and she made quick work of the insertion with the chip-gun, a sharp pop and hiss as the pneumatics inserted the chip according to fat percentage and muscle density. McCree didn’t do so much as flinch. 

 

“Terms of your probation can be found on your datapad. I would ask you to remain in your room for the foreseeable future unless escorted by an approved agent. Do you understand and agree?”

 

Another nod. He wanted to throw up.

 

Then, the meeting was adjourned and McCree was the first out, followed closely by Hanzo. Worry churned his already writhing gut, and the swordsman fought to catch up to the swiftly stepping sniper, who only stopped and whirled around when Hanzo reached out to try and grab him, never making contact. Instead, Hanzo was paralyzed by the intensity of the stare, reminiscent of the coyote eyes but with a sharpness and consideration that was alarmingly observant, perceptive. He felt his air leave him, and weakly he tried to find any words that would somehow aid in his fixing this mess, apologizing for the anxious of his cowardice, anything -- 

 

“Jesse, I’m -- “

 

“Don’t. Don’t Hanzo. I don’t want to hear anything more from you or anyone else. Leave me the fuck alone.”

 

The ice in the words chilled him to the bone, and he couldn't do a goddamn thing as McCree stormed off, the metallic spurs chirruping with every motion he made as he walked away from Hanzo. He feared he did so in more ways than just one.

 

_ “... I’m sorry." _


	7. Wouldn't it be nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some meditation, some panic, and some poor decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait y'all. Had exams and a massive windstorm. Will try to update more regularly.

_ It stood on the horizon as it always did -- miles away and within arms reach as always. He blinked, and it was next to him. 15 hands, a deep sorrel. Thick muscles twitched under the desert heat, and like every night before this one, it stared at him with slow blinks, black mane drifting in the wind. They stared at each other for what seemed like forever, no motion, no hesitation. Should he so much as breathe, the stallion would be gone, and he’d wake drenched in sweat. No breathing, no blinking, no movement, no thoughts. Just him and the horse. They stood facing one another, each without stepping down, and yet the sorrel seemed to outweigh him, outstare him, out everything. This creature was more than he could ever hope to be, belonging in the backdrop of sand and stone, the spotting of green rare against the hues of orange and red, no sunlight but warm hues covering the dream. _

 

_ But there was something cold creeping out from his chest, and he reached up to touch his chest, coming away with frost and peeling away layer upon layer to find an icy deposit creeping along the seam of his prosthetic, sharp pieces of frozen frost growing out from in between his flesh and the metal. The cold sensation spread, growing like a stain of white, leaving him immobilized, stuck a witness to the encapsulation of his body in some frozen tomb. He drew in a panicked breath, a sudden gasp for air and in that moment the mustang spooked, rusty pelt flashing against the setting sun, a movement grand and majestic. The stallion bolted, hooves beating against the desert ground, dust kicking up in its wake, and McCree felt his lungs fill with ice. _

 

He woke to find himself slick with sweat, the blank ceiling of the base staring back at him, and the sound of hooves against the desert ground repeating in his mind.

 

\---------

 

Hanzo spent all day listening to them. All day hearing the others pass judgement on a man who was no longer present to defend himself, leaving nothing behind but a barren room with the sheets still on the bed and the cold already permeating the place he’d slept. 

 

(Athena had been thwarted again. More evidence in the case against a man who had so quickly left in the night. He felt more guilt than he had in a while now.)

 

“Well, he bloody well fucked off.”

 

“I wish I could say I had been expecting otherwise..”

 

“Sucks. Eastwood seemed like a nice guy -- I think? If you get past the whole ‘desert nomad’ thing, which was cool.”

 

“ _ Sadonnammalhasine!  _ Wait, oh shit…”

 

Hana’s sass faded as Hanzo passed by the table where she, Lucio, Angela, and Lena sat, their conversations became quieter as he passed, and though he didn’t see them, he could feel their eyes boring holes into his skin, bright lights scrutinizing the every pore upon his neck, the head of his head. Genji sat with them, silent, and of all the gazes he could feel his most strongly of all, tracking every motion, every step, every line of tension in his face. His brother knew him well, and though the others brought upon an attention unwanted, his brother threatened to break down any walls he’d placed up in an attempt to figure out what plagued him. 

 

The best he could do was move stoically over to the kitchen area, and warm up the lukewarm water boiled in the morning for who drank tea. But his much-desired isolation was interrupted by the sudden sensation of someone beside him, and from the corner of his eye he could see a gleaming white prosthetic and well-styled hair pulled back into a twisted braid. He didn’t have to raise his head to picture the expression on her face, the sharp, calculating pinch between her brows and the otherwise neutral look painted upon her. Had they not been friends, he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to even see the mild furrow between her brows, the slightest show of emotion in the midst of her carefully sculpted expressions. Also because they were friends, he knew that there was no way he was going to escape this conversation, and he didn’t particularly want to have it in front of other people.

 

“May I pour my tea at least?” He sighed, and the terse response was nothing less than what he’d expected in response.

 

“Of course. You can bring it with you to steep however, and I will not tolerate tardiness.”

 

She swept out of the kitchen and surrounding cafeteria styled dining room, and just like that Hanzo knew that he was going to be emotionally devastated by noon hour. Oh well. At least he had some earl grey to make up for it, the familiar container accessible and…

 

Empty.

 

The ensuing groan and the sound of a forehead slamming into a cupboard rung throughout the base, without any response and accompanying a strong sense of kinship from all. The only recognition of the sound, a quiet ‘me too’ from some unidentified individual. Great. Just… great.

 

 

\---------

 

“You’re clearly bothered by his absence.”

 

The conversation began immediately upon his entry into the room, Satya sitting with one leg over the other on the chair next to the table, chess board set up but no intention to play present. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at Hanzo as he sat opposite to her, placing his tea on the table to allow it time to steep. He didn’t get the chance to speak before she continued, nearly surgical in her navigation of the conversation. Hanzo’s fingers rested on the sleek metallic table, his gaze following the shifting tea in his cup. Satya continued speaking, and would do so until she was done, and he would wait accordingly.

 

“And moreso than I would’ve predicted. Why? You knew he was a risky individual, the statistical probability of him double-crossing us was considerably high, and given the desperate lack of vetting present in this facility, the chances were that sooner or later we would let someone into our ranks that posed… a danger to… Hanzo, what are you doing?”

 

He realised that he was pressing into the couch with clenched fingers, enough that his skin turned white with stress at his fingers, and the couch beneath him was stressing at the seams, the fabric ready to give way underneath the pressure. Allegories abounded, evidently. His response was to release the fabric and stare briefly at his own hands, as though they had somehow acted beyond him, without his consent. In the back of his mind, he could feel the dragons shifting, urging him to act, to understand, and even with the deep need to do so, he found himself utterly still, utterly thoughtless. Satya’s sternness shifted, albeit slowly, to some expression far more concerned than anything else, and she leaned back in her chair, uncrossing her legs and folding her hands over her lap neatly.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

She shifted tactics, and because of it, Hanzo felt a different kind of pressure weighing down on him. He sighed again, and held his cup with a type of tenderness known only to those on the verge of something unfortunate. He sipped at the drink, bitterness mixing with warmth into the sip that he took, allowing him the time to consider his words (which was a lot like trying to discern a picture through a field of static and noise). 

 

“... no.”

 

The admission slipped out even if he tried to restrict it, and his breath came in through a ragged sound afterwards. The cup was taken from his hand, and placed on the table, and in a blur of motion, Satya was seated next to him, hesitating before placing her hand on his shoulder. He had no intentions of crying, no desire to fall apart, but his eyes were wet and he held the rough palm of his hand against his eyelids, as though the painful pressure could drive away the constant sinking feeling he was being accustomed to. His teeth dug painfully into his lip and he buried his face, hiding away from the light and sound around him, trying not to think about [i]him[/i]. Trying not to think of the look of betrayal on his face, at the way he had practically snarled, a wild animal wary of being trapped. He tried to convince himself that he had every right to voice his concerns, every right to be worried about the man’s presence. 

 

(But at the same time, he had to try and convince himself that he wasn’t just confused, that he wasn’t just swept up in husky whispers and the touch of a broad hand brushing hair from his face like in some cheesy romance. He had to pretend that he was indifferent despite the sunset colours on a tanned, smiling face, the smell of smoke and hide, despite everything that drew him closer to the other and kept him warm and … familiar. He had to pretend that he did destroy everything he touched, did not create conflict and burn the bridges others painstakingly built. Shit, he was a mess, wasn’t he?)

 

Satya moved away from him,and he legitimately did not notice, too lost in his thoughts to be aware of what was happening around him. He was only aware that he had destroyed something, could only think about the betrayal on his face, the anger and shock, and the self-loathing that he knew the other must have felt. He broke something once again and the sound of rain poured in his ears, the sound of fluttering paper walls. He could smell iron and taste sweat, he could see snarling faces and feel pressure on his heart, a type of squeezing that made him want to throw up. The next few moments were gone in either seconds or millennia, he couldn’t tell, but soon there was a hand on his knee, lightweight and inflexible, a metal touch that was halfway familiar, clear against the static of the rain and memory around him.

 

“Hanzo. Hanzo. It’s me, Genji. We are in one of the games rooms in the Gibraltar base of Overwatch.”

 

His brother went on to say the date, and explain that he was in a safe space, and that he was neither being hurt nor hurting anybody. Soon a hand was on his chest, guiding his breathing, and the static began to fade, the lights dimming until he was able to breathe once more, not knowing when he stopped, and his head felt less like it was full of cotton. His gaze raised to meet his brother’s, visor raised to allow for eye contact, and the concern in those brown eyes so like his own was paralyzing to the elder Shimada, who simply sat there with his brother kneeling before him, looking all the world like he’d lost his mind.

 

“Can you tell me your name?” Genji pressed, and just like that they were in the routine checks after such an event. Hanzo swallowed dryly and nodded, struggling to find his words and finding them heavier than before.

 

“Shimada. Hanzo.”

 

“Do you know where you are?”

 

“Overwatch’s Gibraltar base.”

 

“And who am I?”

 

“Genji Shimada. Infamous cheat at board games and video games.”

 

The attempt at humour got strained smiles from the both of them, and Hanzo flicked down his eyes to his trembling hands, hair out of place and getting in the way of his vision but a lack of willpower leaving him without the urge to fix it. Instead, he watched from the corner of his eye as Genji turned to address someone -- Satya probably -- and clenched and unclenched his hands instead, focusing on the repetitive motion. Soon the door was being shut, and it was just him and Genji. The two of them in near silence, save for Hanzo’s quiet breathing and the almost imperceptible sounds of other Overwatch agents in the base. From here, Hanzo could hear a booming Reinhardt, whose words were indistinct, followed by a higher pitched tone that may have been either Mercy or… he doubted it was Amari, but he’d been wrong before. Genji’s voice cut through it all anyways.

 

“Are you alright,  _ anija _ ?”

 

It was a hesitant phrase, one that was spoken with the memory of other times in which his concern was refused. But right now, while Hanzo was in the aftershocks of something genuinely terrible and anxiety-inducing, he was warring between wanting his brother present and wanting to be alone. It seemed Genji understood this, and simply knelt, not pressing for an answer but not leaving either, allowing Hanzo to stew in his own thoughts and still have another body next to him. A presence there to assure him that the world had not fallen away. From then, it was an indeterminate amount of time before everything came back into focus. Truly.

 

He raised his head to see his brother before before him, expression tight but not successfully hiding his concern for his older brother. And what an unfortunate concern it was -- still Hanzo refused to believe that it could be well placed when it focused on him. He had to assure himself that dwelling on the peculiarity of his brother’s concern would help neither of them. Genji looked patiently back at him, his lips barely quirked in a smile made tight by worry. The elder of the two relaxed his grip and sighed, a heavy breath to try and ease the tight ball in his chest, the same one that felt like it was attached to his lungs and his heart. He breathed, and released it -- he breathed, and he began to speak.

 

“I should have spoken up for him.”

 

The words were as hoarse as he had expected, and his younger brother did not interrupt, merely listening as he continued.

 

“I wasn’t sure at first. It seemed --  _ seems _ \-- perfectly plausible that he could be a leak. He certainly has the skill for it, the ability, but I -- it is my duty to have said something. I should have offered some support, not been the nail in the coffin. I was supposed to be -- I betrayed his trust and there is no excuse for such a dishonourable action.”

 

“Dishonour,  _ anija _ ?”

 

There was a challenge in Genji’s words, and as Hanzo went over his last phrases, he picked out what his brother might be challenging him on. The notion of duty and honour was one that had almost consumed him -- and his brother -- in their combined youth. It was the reason that Genji looked at him now from a scarred face, the reason that Hanzo had nearly killed his brother. And naturally, over the years, Genji had been more forgiving than Hanzo ever was. Still, to try and cover up personal mistakes and trick himself into thinking he was following honour and duty was to disrespect all that he’d done to his brother in the past.

 

“It was a betrayal, Genji. I had his trust, and I betrayed him.”

 

He amended his words gently, and saw the hard edges around his brother’s eyes soften. Genji wasn’t angry, he wasn’t disappointed. Well, perhaps the former wasn’t true -- his younger brother tended to be frustrated and deeply upset when Hanzo wasn’t able to forgive himself, and the effects of years of conditioning did little to aid Hanzo in moving towards forgiveness. Still, the younger Shimada aborted a reach out to touch Hanzo, and instead spoke.

 

“Hanzo. Do you believe he was the reason behind the leak?”

 

The question shocked him with the sobriety of it, with the intensity behind dark brown eyes as they seemed to stare past his face into his soul. What  _ did _ he believe? And was it the same as what he wanted to believe? The wonder at it all granted him no reprieve, and in the end, he was forced to grit out the answers that were half-baked, barely worthy of being considered responses. Because what he thought and what he believed were two juxtaposing ideas, and he tried to articulate what he was thinking, his usually eloquent speech suffering in emotional contexts.

 

“I… think he could be. Rationally, there is every reason to believe that he’s the one that … could have done it. He certainly had the skill and -- he is a known criminal, and had means, opportunity…”

 

Hanzo trailed off. He could practically feel Genji’s curiosity wanting to press for more information, but what willpower the younger Shimada had was used to abstain as Hanzo’s words found him.

 

“It would make sense for him to have done it. But I… don’t believe he did.”

 

The conflict was evident there, and Genji simply listened for a moment before he spoke once more, in that irritatingly understanding tone he’d developed since his long visit to Nepal. And while most of the time he found it unnecessary and every close to condescending, this time he found himself focused more on the content than anything else.

 

“Your mind and your heart are disagreeing brother. And your fixation on honour does you no favours.”

 

“Ah yes, remind me of how you have become so knowledgeable in all this?”

 

“Oh look, my sarcastic older brother has returned from his emotional vulnerability, I am so very pleased.”

 

Between the two of them, a return to sarcasm was as close as they could get to a return to normalcy. But even then, the pregnant pauses in between did them no favours, and eventually certain facts demanded to be spoken.

 

“Why did you speak against him, brother?”

 

Genji asked, passing Hanzo his now-cold tea. Despite the now thickened taste to it, wholly unpleasant passing into him, he refused not to finish the drink he’d made. Hanzo refused to be wasteful, even when he functioned less like a well-trained warrior and more like a child denied candy. Still, the question demanded response, and he chose his words carefully.

 

“I… don’t know.”

 

A scoff from the younger then. Hanzo narrowed his own eyes in response, and Genji saw it fit to continue.

 

“Ah yes, I remember you clearly now. Hanzo Shimada, the clueless Shimada without forethought, my ever-impulsive older brother, whose escapades are always --”

 

“Genji shut up.”

 

Hanzo’s fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to redirect some of the absolute depravity of the situation, ignore the way that his brother was looking towards him with the expression that clearly conveyed his lack of amusement regarding it. Still, the cybernetic man did naught but wait again, flipping back and forth from incorrigible asshole to silent would-be monk. Which… was about as dickish as he expected. He wasn’t sure if it was a general need to talk about what had happened or an obligation to his brother that forced out the words, but he pressed on. 

 

“I felt that… it was my duty to explore the possibility. And I thought that… it was important to say what I knew.”

 

“But not what you believed?”

 

Another sigh, his brown eyes flicking upwards this time, searching the smooth, faintly tiled ceiling. He wasn’t sure how to respond other than with a faint breath and a slackening of the shoulders. The shift of his younger brother brought with it the slightest metallic  _ swish  _ and soon enough Genji’s hand was set solidly on his shoulder, far more noticeable and weighty than before. Genji’s visor slid over his face once more, the green tint lighting up seamlessly. As he withdrew his hand and turned to leave, the younger Shimada raised his hand in half a wave, speaking over his shoulder before he dismissed himself.

 

“Perhaps there is due time for meditation, brother. Unless you’d prefer drowning sorrows in tea and training like usual.”

 

And if Hanzo’s glare was met, he’d melt glass -- definitely not because that had been his plan. Of course not.

 

…  _ I am entirely predictable. _

 

 

\---------

 

If there was one thing he could do without, it was waking to the sound of an alarm as Athena’s systems alerted them to an intruder on the Northern border, the red tinted lights dotting his vision while the daytime systems still ran. By the time he’d rushed out of the shooting gallery, he was already sweating and beginning to suffer from muscle soreness. But at this point in time, he was more fed up with the frequency of would-be and  _ successful _ invaders on their base.

 

“Eh?! Did we start advertising our location or something?”

 

Hana emerged from her games room, looking better rested than he’d expected, gun in hand and stance taut, falling into position next to Hanzo as was appropriate for their respective training, a mutual consideration from military and yakuza training both. For the moment, he simply cocked an eyebrow towards her and she snorted, moving onwards towards the northern border. Hanzo’s comm was in his room, but Hana raised a finger to signal attention, and nodded.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

She responded, flummoxed in regards to whatever came in over communications. Her lips formed a little ‘o’, and she looked pointedly towards Hanzo, a wide-eyed look keeping open her eyes. She mumbled an affirmative, and then pursed her lips as she addressed her partner on this escapade.

 

“Hanzo… it’s _ McCree _ .”

 

He could’ve outrun Lucio at this speed. His steps lacked hesitance, and to be honest, he wasn’t initially sure why he was running. To get to the potential fight sooner? To … see him? To apologize? He wasn’t sure, but his feet carried him anyways, past a couple other agents, whisking through the hallways to the property out front. The sun momentarily blinded him before the light of day illuminated the scene. Morrison tensed, his gun lowered but his body language screaming  _ uncomfortable.  _ Before him, a collapsed Talon agent, bound and still spitting and cursing in what sounded like Hindu. Blood coated the ground, a shoddily wrapped wound on the Talon agent’s shoulder, and standing as tall as he could in the midday sun was…

 

“Jesse.”

 

Hanzo wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but already his dragons curled tightly around his heart, begging him not to do anything foolish. His word was whispered, which seemed the right choice to make given the harshness of the cowboy’s face, the glare of the sun lighting his serape on fire in the light, and the lines of a glare on his face. Hanzo felt relief and concern warring with each other, his eyes stuck on the harsh gaze Jesse set towards Morrison, who was now flanked by Dr. Ziegler and Lucio, who were beginning to look at the wound on the Talon agent. Then, McCree tossed something onto the ground before Morrison, who remained statuesque as Winston moved to inspect it.

 

“There’s yer damn files. Every last copy. In the middle of a transfer to hell knows where ‘n’ I set fire t’all the rest of it. No tracing it, ‘nd no spreading it either. Can’t say whether or not they cracked it.”

 

The rumble in McCree’s voice, had it not been paired with the bitterness of isolation and the harsh grate of dehydrated flesh, would’ve done horrible things to Hanzo. Any other day, any other time -- not when he still remembered the snarl of McCree’s face, the lines of shock twisting into rage and betrayal. Instead of comfort in the low voice of the returning man, Hanzo found dread and shame, beginning to move forwards but finding himself stopped by a metallic hand on his shoulder. He was about to whirl around and give Genji an earful when Zenyatta covered his faceplate with a single finger, silencing the elder Shimada.

 

“I would not go to him just yet, Hanzo.”

 

_ Ludicrous _ , spat his mind, and he opened his mouth to do so before Zen shook his head and angled his face towards McCree and Morrison’s apparent showdown.

 

“It is best not to douse hot glass with cold water.”

 

Suggested the monk, withdrawing his hand and somehow bringing all the moisture in Hanzo’s mouth with him. His eyes returned to where the main gathering of agents was, and Winston finally proclaimed, 

“Hold on! Jack -- most of the data it’s --”

 

“Already compromised.”

 

McCree cut in, much to a certain soldier’s chagrin and the bewilderment of Winston. The scientist adjusted his spectacles and moved closer to McCree, who tensed in kind. Seemingly without social awareness at the moment, Winston remained unfazed and began to speak.

 

“Well, how long has it been like this? And how’d you find it? It’s not easy to find, even now, and it’d be impossible without knowing what to look for if you’ve --”

 

The rough [i]chick[/i] of a match interrupted Winston, the cowboy lighting what appeared to be a cigarillo, and even from here Hanzo could tell this was compensation, from the action itself to the one-handed striking of -- wait…

 

Hanzo’s attention was drawn to the other limb of the American, the one hanging limply by his side, not hooked in a belt loop or stuff in a pocket, nor thumbing the edge of his carrying case but completely deadened beside McCree. Considering the amount of blood from the Talon agent, and the stuff on the ground. 

 

_ I am becoming weary of a lack of observational awareness _ , he realized dully, finally moving forth and deciding that now would be a good time to expedite the process.

 

“Surely whatever is to be discussed can be done so inside?” 

 

He suggested, with a pointed look towards Morrison which… happened to double as a ruse to remain from making eye contact with the returned cowboy. Those in attendance hesitated, the tension in the still sparking brashly about the two bullheaded Americans across from one another, but finally there was a general murmur of consensus. Angela approached Jesse just as Hanzo forced himself to look over, and as the two men met eyes, the doctor began to call over Lucio for something he’d borrowed.

 

“... Jesse, I’m --”

 

“McCree.”

 

The terse response shocked him, and Hanzo took a half step back, unused to the glower that held McCree’s eyebrows into a sharp decline towards the center, and made his teeth grit around his cigarillo. Hanzo hadn’t wanted to see this tighter version of McCree, even further closed up than he’d been on their test mission, further removed and without the humourous walls built up in place. A stutter in his chest had Hanzo reach out with a hand, only to abort the movement mid-reach and the coldness settled in McCree’s expression. There was no room for negotiation, no mercy in the hardened, sun-drenched lines of the man’s face, just an axiom regarding the change in name, the notion that Hanzo had lost the privilege to speak to him informally, and the worst part was that some part of him agreed.

 

“I -- right. My apologies, McCree. Are you -- …”

 

 _Okay_ , he wanted to ask, but his throat closed up and the swordsman retracted his hand, bowing his head instead. _I should go_ , he wanted to say. _I’m sorry._ _Please forgive me. I missed you. What happened? Where did you go?_ \-- a thousand wonders ceased to desist, and instead of follow any of them, Hanzo looked towards the man he’d surely come to call his friend if not more, and found instead of warm nights spent watching old movies on a worn sofa, he found a harsh killer and a businessman who was here for… some reason.

 

Before either of them could say anything, Jesse was walking past him, following the Talon agent and his escort into the base. He left Hanzo standing dumbfoundedly in the courtyard, dragons a hazy blue mist that curled around his legs.

 

 

\---------

 

 

He cleared his own name. He cleared his own name of a crime that, for once, he didn’t commit, because he was Jesse fuckin’ McCree and he wasn’t going to be pegged for something he didn’t do.

 

_ Just like how you weren’t pegged for those robberies, or the murders, or the assaults, or the human trafficking, blah blah blah _ , supplied his treacherous mind, but another swig of good old Johnny Walker helped him forget that once more. He’d polished the barrel of his M24A2 twice now, and at this point he was asking for a night set aside for self-pity, drunken gun cleaning, and flirting with the worst parts of him. He was torn between putting a bullet in his skull and having the world’s worst jerk-off, but neither option seemed very appealing once he collapsed face first into bed.

 

He’d cleared his name.

 

Why? 

 

McCree had never given a shit about records before. You name it, he’s probably done it; so what if his record didn’t have the exact times and dates right? He wasn’t overly bothered by it. But the entire absence he’d had was plagued with the mental image of Hanzo’s dull apathy, the betrayal and rot he’d felt as the guy he’d damn well cared about sold him out. Didn’t care to stand for a minute or two, consequences be damned. And sure shit it was selfish, but McCree hadn’t made it this far with altruism and the virtues of Mother Teresa, and for a while there he’d thought… he’d thought that the close contact, the brush of rough lips against one another and the light teasing of  _ really should shave cowboy, oh yeah well some swordsman needs some lip chap _ meant something. Anything. And then it blew up to shit.

 

“Fuck!”

 

The glass he held smashed against the wall, removable portions of his prosthetic already put away, practically useless now save for as a big damn paperweight. McCree slumped against the wall of his no-longer-locked down room, shoved his palms into his eyes to keep from doing something stupid like crying. He didn’t want to think about how badly it’d hurt to have Hanzo look like that at him. He didn’t want to think about the fact that he was barely allowed back in,and only then because he’d gone out and gotten useful intel. he didn’t want to think about long nights and tea dates and games of checkers in the sunlight.

 

He wanted to get smashed, pass out, wash, rinse, and repeat.

 

 

 

So he did. And when, that night, the mustang in his dreams simply watched with the most judgemental look a horse could manage, Jesse simply remembered to drink more in the morning to mask it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will add in some translations late,r but most of them are insults or sassy backchat.


	8. Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo is not used to apologizing, and McCree is not used to acts of kindness. 
> 
> Tracer is not used to keeping her nose out of others' business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back! I am still not living at home, but I am no longer in the immersion program. My many thanks to those who helped to translate my note, and my apologies for the brevity of this chapter. I hope that you enjoy it regardless, as the beginning arc/slow build of the fiction is now complete, and we will be getting to the meat.
> 
> No, not that meat.

He is back in the place that does not fit him,

They apologize to him, passing by with ‘I’m sorry’s and ‘we didn't really give you a chance’s. He nods here and there, dips the brim of his hat and moves on. He is forever moving forward because standing still reminds him of stagnation and he is trapped in a prison he has created.

But he fought to get back here because… perhaps because only rats jump sinking ships. That, and every once in awhile, he caught a glimpse of the pierced swordsman, usually disappearing from sight or avoiding eye contact. And to be honest, he'd been through enough not to give a shit when people turned on him -- but no one that had treated him like Hanzo had. Maybe that made him a coward, or otherwise compromised, but even the glimpses of the swordsman left his heart speeding and his hands warm. 

Jesse McCree was a goddamn wreck.

\---------

That made two absolute wrecks wandering around the halls of the nearly-fully functional Gibraltar base. Whereas McCree had settled uneasily into his old routine, with half-genuine smiles and the charming smile in place of a poker face, Hanzo had receded back into shuffling through lesser-used hallways and vacating rooms when others entered. He’d done the ‘responsible’ Hanzo thing and tried to remove himself from every situation that could possible bring him more guilt and shame. 

It was going rather poorly.

“You could always try to apologize.”

Genji told him once, trying to hide his exasperation behind kind words as the brothers played some old board game from the early 2000s. Hanzo scowled as the dice fell, handing his brother coins for activating a blue card and earning nothing in return.

“You say that as though words would have a significant enough impact on the man to actually matter.”

He watched as his brother rolled, once more earning coins for his industries, and awaited a response. It seemed to take longer than it really did, though that could’ve been the dormant headache behind Hanzo’s eyes rather than an indication of something more significant. 

“Who said that apologies could only be verbal? Surely you should know this by now.”

Despite the gravity of the words, Genji avoided condescension, and the brothers played on, Hanzo ruminating over the possibilities. Annoyingly enough, his younger brother was right -- and atonement wasn’t something Hanzo was foreign to, but to try to atone to a living, breathing being was a matter that remained difficult to the elder Shimada. 

But he’d try.

 

The next few days held a sort of tension about them, the tightness of the air reminiscent of the sensations before a thunderstorm when the earth held still and fauna remained quiet. The members of Overwatch had always been somewhat aware of the strange behaviour of their swordsman and their sniper, but without further understanding, it was difficult to get involved. Any attempts to learn more were often met with swift deflection, with various reactions depending on who was being asked.

Tracer, known for being a little nosy if only for the sake of friendliness, had tried to grill each and every person that could be involved in the sticky situation (save for Hanzo perhaps, who had simply scowled and then disappeared) with varying amounts of success. Of course, in this case, ‘varying’ lends itself to ‘nonexistent’. Trying to ask McCree launched her into a tale regarding a train heist which she realised later had been a very clever segue to get her off track (it worked entirely). Hanzo was a no-show, and she could swear he’d taken to hiding in vents every time she showed up. Genji was frustratingly unhelpful considering that usually he was happy to gossip and suggest certain trends, instead simply deflecting her questions with a sharpness and quickness that was both admirable and infuriating. Why, she even tried to corner Zenyatta, seeing if the omnic would be more open to sharing anything that Genji may have confided, but instead he tried to talk her into meditation on the genuine reason for her interest, and while she was pretty sure it was a joke, last time she meditated, she had fallen asleep.

There was an expression for this -- “TBA”.

Frustrated by the lack of answers she was getting, and the continuing strangeness that hovered around certain members of Overwatch, Tracer decided it was time to get serious. It was time to get drastic. Action had to be taken that she would usually avoid, due to the severity, but it was inevitable. She had to do the unthinkable.

She had to talk to Satya.

 

“No.”

“What?! I haven’t even said anything!”

“I don’t care. Last time you were in here, you rearranged my books and knocked over my designs, whatever foolish request you would make of me, I refuse to indulge in -”

“-- but it’s not foolish it’s --”

“-- childish games and endeavours --”

“-- about Hanzo --”

“-- that could potentially disrupt my structured --”

“-- he’s hiding in vents and messing up your sensors!” 

“-- schedule and -- what did you say?”

 

It wasn’t that Hanzo had spent a great deal of time sneaking through small spaces, nor that he purposefully interrupted any of the numerous air quality sensors that Satya had painstaking installed in the vents and filtration systems of the Gibraltar base. He was just avoiding people for the time being, trying to right his wrongs, and attempting furthermore to do so through a sort of self-imposed exile. In and of itself, it wasn’t the strangest thing he’d done, and it certainly wasn’t the first time he’d ‘exiled’ himself in search of atonement. However, it was the first time he’d done so while simultaneously trying to right his wrongs through interference with another’s day.

It started with the whiskey.

Their previous relationship had made him privy to some of the preferred drinking habits of the cowboy, and so for some time, it seemed that whenever the bottle of liquor became too light, it was replaced with a new one. Whether or not McCree had noticed the gesture was unknown to Hanzo, although he could swear he’d once seen the man holding a full bottle with a puzzled look scrunched between his brows. Regardless of whether or not it was recognized for what it was, Hanzo felt the slightest bit better, until he noticed the deep frown set in the sun soaked lines of the man’s face, a gut-wrenching contrast to the smile he had once seen there. A sharp inhale stabbed his lungs far worse than his blades could. Unfortunately, it was not a silent breath, and he disappeared from the room as sharp brown eyes began to scan the room with suspicion.

The bottle went unopened.

So he moved on. Quietly restocking the man’s favourite snacks, placing an old western or two in the media room, whatever he could find that could alleviate stress or add just a slight positive to the man’s day. But refilled snacks were met with skittish looks and pursed lips, and more than once, McCree would leave the room upon realising that his things were touched or modified. It seemed that every attempt to appease the man merely unnerved him further, to the point where Hanzo was legitimately questioning the fabric of reality. Did not presents a happy man make? Had he really known so little about McCree? He was beginning to wonder whether or not the moments spent together were somehow filtered through tinted glass, obscuring the truth of the man he sought forgiveness from.

The longer he tried to make amends, the more often he found himself huddling in his room, grumpily ignoring the complaints of Mizu in the back of his mind while Ao remained… absent entirely. At this point, Hanzo Shimada was more than prepared to spend the rest of his days moping in his room, training until he couldn’t move, and going on whatever missions were assigned to him.

 

The entire affair lasted about three days, in which no missions off base were conducted. To those involved (especially Hanzo) it felt like an eternity had passed by, and like some reactions, a catalyst was necessary to create a product from all this nonsense. In this case, the catalyst came in the form of an opening door and the entry of one Satya Vaswani into Hanzo’s room. 

“You disconnected four of my sensors with your vent crawling.”

“I -- hello to you too, Satya.”

Hanzo’s attempts to salvage his pride were hindered by the blanket wrapped about his shoulders and head. Stray hairs, no longer tamed back into a bun, some swept into his face and others floating with the magic of static electricity. It certainly didn’t compare to the well-kempt appearance of Satya, who looked down at the Hanzo-bundle over the bridge of her nose, bottom lip jutted out just enough to be noticeable. The carefully chosen expression may have been subtle to others, but in Satya-speak, it was worse than being yelled at. Broken pride mustered a scowl on Hanzo’s face, but it paled in comparison to the steel in the eyes of his intruder.

“You have five minutes to be presentable.”

She informed him, gently moving her arm to access the interface laced into the top, visor flickering to life as she typed something with dancing fingers.

“What? For what purpose? I am sorry for disturbing your technology, but I’m in no place to --”

Hanzo was silenced by a single finger held perpendicular to the ground, motioning for him to wait. The sharp blue of the visor disappeared and Satya folded her hands behind her back, chin raising. This was the face of a woman who would not be interrupted, and though Hanzo often held himself with regality, there was no resistance to the open-shut cases Satya demanded.

“McCree is en route.” Satya continued as Hanzo sprang from the bed in clear protest, unable to speak as she did. “It is imperative that you two solve whatever nonsense goes on between you before you further disrupt environmental conditions. I am now personally invested not only because you are in no shape to keep company, but because you have changed my things.”

There was no room for argument, and the engineer left as swiftly as she entered, likely to correct whatever atrocities Hanzo had committed (and really, he realised he owed her an apology for creating more stress in her life). For a half a minute, he seemed paralysed by the utter spontaneity of the situation, until his mind caught up.

McCree was on his way.

McCree was on his way and Hanzo hadn’t changed his shirt in two days.

McCree was on his way and Hanzo looked exactly like he’d been moping around in his room, and crawling through dusty vents. Hair everywhere, and -- god, was that dust on his eyebrow oh god. Frantic, the man whipped on a change of clothes and was in the middle of washing his face when the door slid open with the hushed shh of the smooth metal. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“... Shimada.”

Oh god dammit. Drawing in breath through his nose, Hanzo forced himself to school his face and dab away the remaining suds and water on his skin, turning to face McCree. The door shut, leaving the two isolated in a mostly-sealed room, no sound but the single drop of water falling from the faucet onto the sink. The team quarters weren’t incredibly small, but they certainly felt that way, Hanzo tilting his head up to peer at the stony face of the cowboy standing a few steps away from him. The two suffered in the silence for a moment before Hanzo brought it upon himself to speak.

“McCree, I -- “  
“Shimada, you --”

The two begun at the same time, effectively aborting the attempted commencement. It was… almost funny, judging by the slight twitch in the corner of McCree’s mouth and the tiny release of tension in the swordsman’s lungs. It was just a little bit, but it leant the way for Hanzo to continue, despite McCree’s return to neutrality in his expression. It was a beginning. 

“Please, allow me.”

Hanzo requested, closing his eyes and dipping his chin to his chest. When he looked back to McCree, he could see unease dance in the clouded brown of the other’s eyes. No time to hesitate then.  
“I… am not good at apologies. And you do not make it easy to do so either.”

An eyebrow raised on the cowboy’s face, and defensiveness rose in response to Hanzo’s beginning.

“Yeah, starting to get the feeling that you’re more than a little ‘not good’ at apologies there partner.”

The reply was in the same, rumbling voice, but the tone was tight and Hanzo knew he was testing his already thin boundaries. He barrelled forth to try and cover his tracks, to make sure that he did what he meant to do. McCree was right, he was awful at apologies, but he wanted to try at least.

“But. But I… I wanted to apologise. For not supporting you. For throwing you under the bus, so to speak -- you’ve been incredibly helpful and valuable to this team, and knowing that you have risked your life in order to help others… you’re a valuable member of this team and an agent Overwatch should be proud to have.”

The surprise was there, hidden under a still-cold face that did not budge. McCree shifted his weight on his feet, eyes refusing to meet Hanzo’s. 

“Right. Well. Glad y’got that out of y’er system, I guess I should prolly --”

“I’m not done.”

He cut McCree off with a raised hand, palm facing the other man to stop his exit motion. But he was on a roll now and if he stopped, he wasn’t sure he’d ever muster up the wherewithal to begin again. 

“Anyone could tell you that you are a valuable member of the team. That much is clear. But I… I believe, and I want to believe, that we were more than just teammates, that we were friends and... “ something more went unsaid, his mouth stuttering over the thought and forcing him to abandon the sentence. Nerves summoned his hand to the back of his neck, anxiety beginning to wake up.

“And I betrayed that. I am deeply sorry. I cared -- care -- about you, and I was… unable to express that beforehand. I should have spoken to you. I find many things difficult regarding people -- regarding you -- but I should not have been controlled by my emotions.”

There was a beat before McCree cleared his throat, apparently catching on that Hanzo had finished speaking. And honestly, by now the elder Shimada was mentally preparing for disgust or a continuation of anger, trying to ignore the ringing in his ears, and the mental upset that gripped him.

“I know.”

His eyes flicked up to McCree’s calm visage, thoughtful but not hateful.

“You… know?”

He hated the uncertainty of his voice when it escaped him, but based on the second shuffling of McCree’s feet, the other wasn’t doing much better than he was. If he didn’t feel like his guts were ready to drop through the floor, it might’ve been funny. But luckily the conversational onus was on McCree now.

“Yeah. I mean, coulda guessed as much anyways. Kinda the same. Trust isn’t… it’s not a thing I can have. I s’pose it makes sense that you’re the same.”

There was reluctance there, as if he didn’t want to believe the words he was saying. McCree was trying to convince himself just as much as he was trying to convince Hanzo. Between the two of them there was too much pride and distrust and -- god, they were like children who couldn’t handle their emotions, weren’t they? Hanzo realised with a start that he wanted McCree to trust him, wanted him to understand why he had done it and why he was sorry. He wanted this man to understand.

“McCree I -- I want to tell you how I came to be here. I want to tell you why I -- why it’s difficult for me to trust. Not you. But myself.”

There was danger in the eyes of the man who stood across from him, danger and concern and… a great deal of confusion. He couldn’t imagine anyone having confided in the cowboy for some time, and with both sadness and a thrill of something else, he realised that he would be the first in a while to really let in Jesse McCree. 

“You might as well sit down, cowboy. It’s… a long story.”

An eyebrow raised, but Jesse seated himself on the bed and waited, Hanzo sitting in the desk chair and facing the other before beginning.

“I was born the heir to a yakuza clan, the Shimada empire…”

 

It took a while. Recounting not everything, but a considerable amount of it. Talking about how he’d been raised the strict heir, raised with expectations that limited and strengthened him at once. He spoke of how his mother had disappeared, how his father had begun to grow weak in the eyes of the elder’s. His voice tightened as he brought himself to speak of his father’s death, and he felt moisture on his face as he forced out the brutal death he had sought to reap from his brother, how he had thought that he would be sparing Genji, how he had felt at once powerless and wholly responsible.

McCree waited patiently, a far better listener than one would expect the fast-talking, quick-witted cowboy to be. But Hanzo knew better. He knew the sharp eye of the sniper followed every shift in expression, he knew that every tension, every rise or dip in his voice was tracked dutifully by an observant ear. He was more than just heard, he was listened too, and it set his skin on fire as he continued. He finally reached the arrival of Overwatch in time to save his brother, how he had begged them to kill him for causing his brother so much pain. He mentioned briefly the ongoing process to forgiveness with his brother, how Genji had grown, contrasting it with the harshness of their strained relationship while the two had worked in Blackwatch. At some point, one of Hanzo’s shaking hands had been taken into McCree’s, warmed and held steady. For once, it didn’t feel like pity, but just… support. He wasn’t being pardoned or fretted at, he was just being listened to, and he finally came to the end with a mostly dry face, his throat parched and his hands resting in those of the larger man before him. They both leaned forth slightly, letting silence fill the room, without awkwardness, without tension. Air slid in and out of lightened lungs, and he felt at ease with simply existing within Jesse’s space. 

So many others pitied him, or were angry. Whispered assurances of ‘it’s not your fault’ that he met with righteous anger, or accusations of betrayal, character assassinations -- all of it. But McCree offered nothing for a few moments, simply sweeping the rough pad of his thumb over the back of Hanzo’s hand. The rift between them was healing now, and Hanzo leaned forwards to relax his tensed shoulders.

“I understand.”

Eventually McCree’s words came up, and though the hat had been remove,d his face was still obscured by hair, eyes down and voice hoarse. 

“Done some shit too Hanzo. Killed people that weren’t deservin’ of it. Killed people close to me. Did it ‘cause I thought there wasn’t any choice. I can’t -- I can’t talk about it. Not like you did. It’s not all there-- I can’t go back to it.”

It was hard to tell who tightened the grip -- sniper or swordsman -- but it tightened in synch with McCree’s throat and Hanzo waited for him to continue.

“I can’t say whether I’m able to talk ‘bout it Hanzo. Ever.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“You wouldn’t -- “ Incredulity flashed on his face and McCree drew back. “You’d pour all that out and tell you that you don’t give a shit what lays behind me? What shit I’ve drug myself through?”

Hanzo held the defensive gaze, and did not waver in its wake. He was certain of his next words, even as the upper lip of the man before him scrunched up, forever reminiscent of the wild desert, the harsh face it put up to outsiders, but he did not flinch under the dry desert look now.

“No. I care about what has happened. But I will not force you to speak. You will tell me what you are willing to, and no more -- I want to trust you. And I will start with this.”

And that was it for the two. The intensity between the dragon and the coyote burst, a storm in the desert, and McCree moved forwards to press his head against Hanzo’s. The two of them spoke nought and moved nought but to simply radiate in the presence of one another and drink in the silent moment of peace that followed the tumultuous past. And who knew -- perhaps it was the end of the mess that they had made…

Or perhaps it was but the eye of the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you liked the story, leave a little comment or something -- just seeing that you enjoyed it warms my heart.


	9. Late and Awful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're both horrible. McCree hides things and no one says what they're supposed to. What are those children up to? No, Genji -- put that down!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sobs* I'm so sorry this is so late. Have I mentioned I'm an engineering student now?

It’s not like one conversation fixed everything. There were so many hurt parts of the both of them, so much trust broken -- but they were trying. Sometimes that meant that they trained together, learning to watch each other’s backs (something that Hanzo came to learn meant a great deal to McCree) and other times that meant sitting down and sipping on their respective drinks with a film playing before them. It was… oddly domestic, save for the training days. Not that Jesse McCree knew much about domesticity, but he’d seen vids, and he was pretty sure that this was as close as he was ever going to get.

It was weird. It was foreign. It was… nice.

McCree spent a good deal of his life ducking and dodging, shooting and swearing. He knew the value of a human life weighed in lead, counted heads more often than he counted laughter, and didn’t waste time worrying about how he felt. But in the past few weeks, the sniper had become ever-more aware of his precarious position in regards to a certain swordsman. He already knew that he cared far too much when it came to Hanzo’s approval, but now he was starting to get irritable over the amount of time he spent thinking about the elder Shimada. It started with that conversation, and the ensuing emotional distress. Having another’s sins laid out before you brought a kind of power that made Jesse feel small in his own boots. Though something had changed between them then, he still wasn’t quite sure what that ‘something’ was.

It was small enough to be unnameable, and significant enough to change everything. He cared too much. He paid too much attention to the wrong things. They trained and instead of finding a calm satisfaction in the successes they found, McCree found himself more excited for the aftermath, the gleam in Hanzo’s eye and the looseness of his back after they had practically exhausted themselves. He was… suspiciously keen to watch Hanzo now, and everytime the other glanced over, McCree felt an embarrassing shame creep hot under his skin. It never helped that, when caught by the man in question, Jesse was subject to a knowing smirk from the other and an amount of smugness that seemed nearly cruel.

Aside from Hanzo, however, McCree had begun to creep out into other fields of friendship. Something about needing to ‘get to know people’. Hanzo had mentioned it with the dismissive wave of a hand and in return, McCree had taken it to heart, once more with a frightening amount of intensity. Befriending people was just as difficult as he had previously assumed, and whether it was cultural differences or a reluctant lack of ability on McCree’s behalf, the few attempts he made to be kind were met with… less than desirable consequences. Destroyed touchscreens, ruined baking, somehow destroyed showerheads, and even a training-bot-turned-actual-hostile-enemy followed in his wake of attempts, and at the end of a gruesome, incredibly deadly two days of concentrated social interaction, the cowboy gave up on both humanity and to a greater extent himself.

Mostly himself. Almost entirely so. 

So into the second day of his self-imposed exile (one of the ever-increasing episodes of elongated isolation, now enhanced by a certain Shimada’s assignment onto a mission), it was rather surprising to hear a knock on his door. A shaggy haired head raised itself from the mattress -- dark brown eyes narrowed at the door. He didn’t expect Hanzo back, so why was someone knocking at his door.

“Go ‘way.”

He grumbled, turning over and knocking a bottle out of his bed, the glass clinking against the hard floor. Then, after five seconds of post-drunken, bed-based bliss, the door was opening anyways. In the time it took for McCree to realise the door was opened, the blanket was ripped off of him and he’d crashed face-first into the floor, skin and muscle pushed aside just to let him taste the floor a little bit. Fight or flight engaged, and he moved to scramble to his feet, only to be interrupted by a boot on the back of his neck.

“Well! This is where you go to hide away!”

The feminine voice did nothing to assuage his very real, very potent panic, and as soon as the foot eased up, McCree sprang upwards, scrambling for the weapon at his side. He stared down the barrel of his heirloom of a revolver at a figure that he did not immediately recognize, who seemed to look back with an almost irrevent amount of nonchalance.

“That’s a horrendous way to greet a lady.”

She declared, and Peacemaker went away rather quickly as soon as he recognized the inked eye and bronzed expression belonging to one of Overwatch’s agents. Something-Amari was on her personnel record, he recalled, and she was the one with the giant mechanical suit… although, come to think of it, that didn’t narrow it down very far. Tired mind tugging blearily at the memories of the files he’d read over, the not-quite-sober American finally found a name with which to address his uninvited (and unwelcome) guest.

“Pharah. What’n the hell’re y’doing, bargin’ into a man’s room like that? Damn near got shot.”

The words took time to escape him, pronunciation slow and drawling, a Western accent that hid nothing about his origins. And still, the woman across from him smiled, with her chin up and her poised posture clearly marking her as holding more power in this exchange. That kind of attitude made Jesse’s hair stand on end, and the corner of his lip twitched in discomfort. His guest met his dark eyes for the better part of two minutes, the two agents standing off in a way that seemed far more aggressive than humanly possible.

“Fareeha.”

The silence shattered, and after blinking with the shock of it, McCree replied with the clear response to that addition.

“Bless you.”

The woman’s smile dropped, and she leaned forward to -- to flick him on the nose. What? Before he could speak, she cut him off and took over.

“No, you cretin, that’s my name. Oh, for the love of -- do you know how much work I’m going to have to do with you?”

Mid-sentence, she’d pushed past him, and bewildered as he was, it took the cowboy a few moments to turn around and track her motions. She surveyed the room with a general distaste which only grew more directed as she came to the epicentre of the disaster; the space on and around his bed. If he’d given more of a damn, he might’ve had the decency to be embarrassed about the amount of alcohol and mess that there was, but he was too focused on trying to understand just what in the hell was going on. Finally, he caught up with her words, and furrowed his eyebrows before he managed to reply indignantly, “now you just hold on one minute miss, I reckon --”

“Ooh, you reckon, do you? Or wreck? Your living space looks like a village of small, waterless people broke into a liquor cabinet. Do you know that you’ve been in here three days? Three entire days without leaving your quarters?”

She had picked up a discarded beer bottle and pointed the neck towards him accusingly. His hands are up, palms towards the decidedly very stubborn lady, and McCree backtracked, trying to save face with a stuttered, “w-well I don’t imagine that-”, cut off by a continuing Fareeha.

“Nope. You’ve lost your privilege of free speech by acting like you’re a disgruntled eight year old. I’ve seen cleaner disaster zones. Now,” she began, physically manhandling him towards the bathroom unit attached to his sleeping quarters, “you will shower for a minimum, minimum of eight minutes, and clean yourself up before you step outside the bathroom, and then we will discuss your chores and tasks.”

He turned on his heel to try and defend himself against this small, stern woman, and only found a closing door greet him as the bathroom shut off from his room. It took a solid 30 seconds before he could fully process what had occurred, and even when he finally pieced together the events that had happened, he was still left hopelessly lost when it came to the significance and reasoning. Heavy fingers scratched at an unkempt beard which… okay, could have used some T.L.C. He still didn’t understand the minimum 8 minute shower though, it wasn’t as if he smelled that bad --

\-- a single sniff to the underarm had him flashing back to some unpleasant scenes and managed to remind him about corpses left out in the sun too long. Okay. Ten minute shower it was.

 

When McCree finally left the bathroom a whopping 30 minutes later, he’d trimmed his beard, scrubbed hard enough to left his skin red, hell, even cleaned out his ears. The entire time, he was trying to work out how in the world he was going to save his pride, but upon poking his head out of the bathroom to see if he could grab a change of clothes, he realised that there wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to soothe what would be left of his aching pride after this incident.

The place was clean. Not even a little ‘tidied’ up, but genuinely clean. The bed was made, the dirty clothes placed into a pull-out from the wall that he hadn’t even known was there, and his personal belongings carefully set in positions where he could easily find them. His possessiveness thundered like hooves on the plains when he realised Fareeha had moved his things (potentially gone through them, slaughtering any last bit of privacy or sense of self that he had left in this identity-thieving place) and he opened his mouth to give this damnable lady a piece of his mind and then some, but instead of hearing himself, he found silence in the wake of her pre-emptive response.

“Hush. I didn’t go through your things, which I assume is why you’re trying to dent the doorway,” she narrowed her eyes at his flesh hand, gripping the doorframe with a rage that left his knuckles white and trembling. As he retracted the appendage, making sure he was out of sight of the woman, Fareeha continued.

“I cannot find your clean clothes. Where are they?”

“Where’d you put ‘em,” came the slow rebuke, McCree’s back leaning against the cold of the bathroom wall, voice drifting out of the bathroom.

“I put your… filthy scraps of clothing in the hamper. Now, stop being difficult and tell me where your other sets of clothing are.”

There was a telling silence that seemed to last far too long as McCree tried to come up with an excuse, only to hear a horrified gasp from outside the bathroom. Before she spoke, she tried to wrench the door open, fighting against Jesse’s scrambling attempts to keep the damn door shut, his blushing face only a symptom of his desire to not be seen.

“Hey! Hold y’er horses woman!” He protested, as surprisingly strong hands held the door and the doorframe.  
“No! Are you trying to tell me that you have been here for -- for weeks and you own -- JESSE MCCREE, you OPEN this DOOR!”

He heard horribly evil things in her screeching madness, and scrambled to resist, but whether it was the out-of-hand exhaustion or just her deceivingly strong arms, the door was flung open and he scrambled back, trying to stop her from seeing him. He lost his balance and spilled against the floor, managing to keep his decency but --

“I cannot believe that for weeks you’ve -- ya Allah…”

Her determination petered out into whispered shock as she found herself looking down at McCree, who did his best to keep himself from panicking over the sudden reveal of his physical appearance, the most anyone had seen of him since Hanzo had walked in on him doing laundry. He felt anxiety and panic crawl into his throat, scratching at his insides. It was remarkable how small such a large man could make himself when flesh and metal hands both moved to hide his faces and his lungs could no longer expand.

Then, there was a sheet over him, and the anxiety took over.

 

 

Several hours and a whole host of awkwardness and horrible, anxious moments, the two agents were sat on the floor across from one another. Jesse wore an Overwatch issue outfit, sweats and a baggier sweater covering him. The steam rose gently from the cups before him, and he was finally too tired to be angry at Fareeha, who knelt across from him.

“Do you drink tea?”

She asked, trying to drag out some sort of conversation from him besides the scraping breaths and desperate gasps he’d offered prior to his resolute silence. Rather than reply, he focused on the tea, light brown, swirling gently from the stream poured into his cup. The kettle was placed on the tray and he gingerly picked up the hot mug, watching the liquid still before him .

“My mother liked egyptian chamomile the best. I find it far too mild.”

The small talk grated at him, and he lifted the cup to his lips.

Finally, the silent treatment frustrated Fareeha to the point where she placed her cup on the tray with a pronounced clack, her lips pursed tighter than double-stitched thread. Her eyes were unreadable, even moreso when McCree refused to lift his gaze from the tea. She sighed, and placed two fingers against her temple.  
“Look, McCree --”

“Don’t.” He snapped, more growl than speech. He felt the tightness return, like an over-coiled spring in his chest being wound once more. He tasted ozone in his mouth, and Fareeha was only swayed for a moment.

“Don’t what? Show concern for a teammate? I understand if that’s how it was in Deadlock, but in Overwatch we-” Smash.

The cup shattered against the wall. McCree didn’t remember throwing the damn thing, but it stole away Fareeha’s words and she observed the dripping stain wordlessly. He didn’t pause to let her adjust, leaning forwards aggressively as he went on.

“I don’t give a shit what you do. What you do is come into a man’s personal space, trash his things, and dig into shit what you shouldn’t dig into!”

He finished yelling, and still, still the lady managed to gather herself and speak with intent, and purpose.

“Enough, McCree. I regret the actions that lead me to invade your personal privacy, but I do not regret ‘coming into a man’s space’ as you so eloquently put. Newsflash buddy -- we are a team here, and when Hanzo cares about someone as much as he cares about you, it’s my job to make sure you live long enough for him to try and ask you out!”

Silence again, but this time it was McCree’s turn to looked wide-eyed at Fareeha. His jaw dropped, and she took that as her chance.

“I’m sorry that I saw -- that I saw what you’ve been hiding. And I won’t say a word of it to anyone except Angela, unless,” she stressed, seeing Jesse ready to argue again, “unless you agree to work with me in order to prove you can take care of your gods-damned self. That is my ultimatum, Mr. McCree. What do you say?”

He hesitated, staring at the dripping tea on the wall, the blatant rejection of her attempts to soothe made physical and very, very real. Instead of immediately denying or agreeing, he asked her something first, hesitant and careful about his wording -- especially considering her claim about ‘caring’. 

“Why care so much about Hanzo?”

Hanzo had explained a lot to him, about the clan, about Blackwatch -- but they hadn’t spilled everything, and McCree didn’t think this woman was old enough to have worked with the elder Shimada back in the day. She was probably fifteen years younger than McCree, at least. So… Luckily, she was quick to respond, and didn’t question him on his apparent concern.  
“He acted like an older brother to me while I was young, and worked with my mother. I care deeply about him, and he cares about you. I cannot tell you for the life of me why, but as much I love him, he’s still terribly soft.”

She took a deep breath and pressed again, “do you agree, McCree?”

Apparently, he was in a spiralling pattern of ‘losing every scrap of pride he had left’, because the next words out of his mouth were, “alright.”

 

Hanzo arrived back two days after Jesse and Fareeha officially ‘met’ each other, and after some stress on the mission, he may have admitted to his brother the feelings he held towards a certain skittish cowboy. Now, Genji was practically bouncing around him, revolving around his elder with a kiddish excitement that simultaneously made Hanzo’s head hurt and the butterflies stir in his gut. He had to hide a smile behind his stern expression as they made their way from the loading bay into the halls of Gibraltar. 

“Please, brother -- you have to tell him! Ask him out!” 

Genji demanded, rapid fire Japanese cutting off their conversation to certain passer-bys; notably a grumbling Soldier being escorted away by a tutting Angela, her sternness trying to hide her open concern for the man’s well being. Hanzo pretended to be distracted by the others as his brother waited for a response. Finally, glancing at the begging cyborg, Hanzo responded.

“It’s a flight of fancy, Genji. Think nothing of it.”

“A flight of -!” Genji choked on the words, and grabbed his brother’s arm, tugging as if they were both kids again and he was trying to pull Hanzo’s attention to some game. Suddenly very serious, the younger stood before his brother and stopped their walk.

“Hanzo, when is the last time that you’ve had such a ‘flight of fancy’? You are the least ‘fanciful’ person that I know!” Genji’s protests were met by a small smile on Hanzo’s behalf, the latter’s hand resting on the younger’s quietly whirring shoulder. Despite Genji’s pleas for him to act on the impulse, Hanzo still wasn’t certain that it could be anything else.

“You worry too much, and that is supposed to be my job. Now stop acting like a child. We’ve our debriefs to record and then you clearly need to nap.”

With a hearty clap on the shoulder, Hanzo moved on, leaving Genji sputtering ‘a nap?!’ behind him. Right. He could finish this debrief, get some sleep, and maybe check to see if McCree would be interested in seeing that new vid he’d seen advertised on the --  
Sweet Mother of God.

Hanzo was frozen to the spot because before him stood a very groomed, very well-dressed McCree. The man himself looked mildly uncomfortably, metal hand brushing against the back of his neck. Immediately, Hanzo was concerned about the reason behind the sniper’s choice in attire and presence and -- oh, Genji had found Fareeha and the two were holding hands and discussing something in the gossiping whispers of old croons. If he wasn’t so distracted at the moment, he might have chided them for poor behaviour.

Instead, he found himself tilted up his chin and ignoring the heated blush over his cheeks. 

“McCree? It’s nice to see you.”

The taller man was refusing to make eye contact -- and Hanzo felt himself grin despite his nervousness. The gruff McCree cleared his throat and very nearly said words, but instead ended up in a verbal trainwreck.

“Hanzo, I --” crashed into “Jesse I believe --” and the two huffed their respective awkward laughs to the great dismay of the observing younger siblings. Even a passing Satya was doing her best to pretend that she was merely interested on the data-pad before her and not the horribly annoying romantic tension that was rolling out down the hall from her. Eventually, Jesse shook his head and gestured vaguely to the side. 

“You go right on ahead Hanzo.”

“Oh -- I uh --,” suddenly discouraged from his course of action, he lifted his eyes to see a double thumbs up from Genji and Fareeha both, and while he set his face into determination, his next words didn’t exactly go as planned.

“I was wondering if I’ve told you about my appendix? It hurts me and makes me feel like -- wait. No, that’s not right.”

What he had planned to be the smooth delivery of a well-practiced pick-up line ended up being jumbled into a mess of … well, sounds that may have resembled words. In his peripheral, he could see the younger siblings in various states of horror, but what really gutted him was the confused concern on McCree’s face.

“Um,” started the cowboy, much to Hanzo’s dismay. “You should probably see Mercy about that Hanz. After that -- well, if you’re feeling up to it, maybe I’ll see you around.”

In the time that McCree left, confused and concerned and a little bothered about his failed attempt at flirting. As concerned as McCree was, once he was out of sight, Hanzo sunk to the floors and groaned, clutching his heart as he departed with any illusions he had of smoothness.  
“Hanzo.”

Fareeha’s voice came from above, short and bookended by hysterical laughter from Genji. Hanzo’s rejection was manifest as he resigned himself to spending eternity as a disaster, and finally a hand patted him condescendingly on the back.

“It’s okay brother. At least he’s just as bad as you are.”

In the background, Genji struggled to spit out the pick-up line, something along the lines of ‘are you my appendix ‘cause I should take you out’, and further down the hall, Satya fought the urge to die in second-hand embarrassment for her friend. Luckily, there was a back-up plan that Genji and Fareeha had insisted on and Satya had rejected; but seeing Hanzo silent in his shame spurred her to reconsider.

Knowing these two, everyone would be long dead before this got anywhere. Still… worth a shot.


	10. Spirit Guides are Jerks and So is McCree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are confusing, communication is important, and Mizu and Ao came to say hello. 
> 
> Sorta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I thought about updating regularly? That was fun. That was a fun time, with funny thoughts.
> 
> Anyways, posting chapters is sporadic as heck now, because I'm an engineering student and that's a time and a half. But feeding me comments, while not expediting the arrival of a new chapter, does feed my ego. Yum.
> 
> Bless y'all.

The worst part of the embarrassment was that before Hanzo could try to regain what little dignity remained and attempt to flirt once more, there was a mission assignment. Something big enough that multiple teams were to be deployed. The briefing was shortened, time a resource they could not afford to waste. Hanzo had been assigned alongside McCree (with no shortage of pointed looks from siblings and passive onlookers alike) so that the two of them could provide personal protection for omnic-human equality leaders Jorge and Poinsettia. On top of the up-close protection, they were deploying a team to cover mid-distance protection at the events to be held along the way. Further teams were focused on running tech interference, transportation, all the necessary operations to try and establish secure transport of the peaceful couple from Veracruz to Tampico, Mexico. 

 

It was all very routine, so there was no real reason for Hanzo to be feeling like his intestines were being drawn up into twisted knots. Well, no reason save for being in close proximity with McCree for upwards of a week. After his failed attempts at flirting and that lovely, constant anxiety about his own worth in regards to attempting to  _ date _ McCree, Hanzo was almost certain that this mission above all overs would be the one to do him in. There wasn’t much time to discuss beforehand what their mission would look like, so it felt a lot like being told he was going to be facing off a dangerous animal and then being thrown into a ring with a spoon. 

 

Actually, animals were fairly predictable. And at least he’d know where he stood with an angry tiger or something similar -- as food. When it came to McCree, he felt like he was navigating a minefield with an outdated map. So it was with a simmering impression of impending doom that he boarded their transport headed for Veracruz, and did his best not to startle when McCree sunk into the seat beside him.

 

“S’one of our first missions together.”

 

The cowboy began, leaning back in his seat and tilting his hat so that the brim covered the top portion of his face. In a calm tone that revealed none of his nervous energy -- or so he assumed -- Hanzo replied.

 

“Indeed. And yet it is a fairly important one, given current events.”

 

There was hesitation before McCree, and then (in the tentative voice of one trying to hide some lack of knowledge) he inquired.

 

“How d’ya mean?”

 

“Well… surely you’re aware of the rise in attacks on omnic equality groups?”

 

McCree shifted in response to Hanzo’s question, making the swordsman wonder just how isolated the other had been in his lifetime. He decided not to let his own question stand, and cleared his throat before continuing.

“With the increased attacks and radicalism on either side, it’s easy to understand why a human-omnic couple leading the central American equality movement would be such a target for those wishing to… push their own agenda.”

 

Carefully chosen words escaped Hanzo -- he wasn’t the former heir to an empire for nothing. He knew political sensitivity, and to be frank, he was curious as to where McCree stood on the issue. The cowboy seemed nonreactive, and he was ready to go without a reply before finally…

 

“Human-omnic? So what, they’re…”

 

McCree’s words dangled, and before Hanzo could answer, a robotic tone chimed in with the tranquility of one unaffected by the vague threat of potential judgement.

 

“Lovers, I believe. Or life partners, if you’d rather.”

 

Zenyatta sat like stone nearby, and though Hanzo was unsure of where McCree stood on omnic politics, he couldn’t help but watch razor-eyed, waiting for disapproval with an almost protective sensation. His own, confused feelings in regards to McCree would matter very little if the other was discriminatory regarding Genji’s partner. Instead, in spite of an unusual stillness, the sniper simply drew further down his hat and gave a noncommittal “hm”.

 

Right. So that was yet another mystery, for yet another day. The longer Hanzo spent time around McCree, the further he was convinced that he knew absolutely nothing about him.

 

\---

 

_ Jesse’s eyes opened, and he was blinded by light. A purple-white flash illuminated the sky above him, and he heard the cacophonous thunder burst his ears a moment after. It hurt, but no more than it usually did. His lungs expanded in shock, stinging his soft tissue and flesh with the taste of ozone. Sand grit against his skull while he raised his head, struggling to get to his feet as the land below him slipped and made him lose his balance.  _

 

_ He glanced to the side, on his hands and knees, and his eyes caught the silhouette with the second crack of lightning flashing in the grey sky. The horse stood just a slope over, mane and tail whipping in the wind. His own hair was plastered on his face, obscuring his vision as he pulled himself to his feet. His legs protested, but every drop of attention was on the creature in the distance. It raised onto its back legs, striking at the air, thunder echoing the motions. He could hear the whispered ‘shhhh’ of the sand as the horse returned to all fours, and as he breathed in, the beast took off, legs stretched in a gallop, sweat soaking the forms of wild man and wild horse both. It thundered across the desert, deafening, and the scream that tore itself from Jesse’s lungs echoed in the shrieking storm, splitting the grey sky. _

  
  


“McCree.”

 

He woke. Air scratched against the back of his throat, raw and painful. Before him stood Hanzo, whose hand was frozen halfway in between the two of them, something indecipherable in his dark eyes. Well, indecipherable to McCree at least. He felt his chest twist uncomfortably, and given the sharpness of his sudden vulnerability, the cowboy glared at his friend, as though a sudden rush of anger would bely his own moment of frightening insecurity.

 

“What?”

 

His word came out snappy and cruel, but Hanzo’s face did not shift, a muscle flicking in his jaw before he responded. 

 

“I only meant to wake you because we’re landing in Veracruz.” Hanzo, already standing with his carry-on slung over his shoulder, didn’t pause any longer to wait for McCree. Ah, damn -- the man felt his brows draw together, and he grunted once he raised himself out of his chair. A stray hand corrected the way his hat sat upon his head, and he followed in his partner’s path. The sun blinded him until he pulled down the brim of his hat, and coughed to clear his mind. The warmth of the air welcomed him, familiar and hostile all at once. He adjusted and could see again, spotting his partner walking towards the retainer that they were to meet, who would walk forth and shake hands with a rather reluctant Hanzo.

 

A brief introduction later, and McCree and Hanzo both were in a vehicle headed to a the hotel and conference center in Veracruz. They were greeted by a mixed crowd outside, police officers doing their best to guide and separate individuals from different mobs of ideologies. Flesh hands hoisted signs above their heads, slogans of hatred and separation. Hanzo could pick out a few words here and there, but McCree scanned the crowd with understanding hidden in his stance and a critical eye sweeping across the gathering. Two sects appeared to exist -- one crowd mingled with omnics, peace signs on cardboard signs, a child sitting on metal shoulders. The other crowd was just as loud, just as colourful, wielding boards declaring omnics to be the end of times, disgraces, shouts for ghettos and segregation splitting the air. Hanzo felt his chest tighten at the madness of it all, jaw flickering once more. He was aware of his tell, the movement that spelled when he was trying to hide something, but it still surprised him when others picked up on the subtle flicker of skin. It surprised him when McCree cleared his throat as though to speak.

 

“Yes?”

 

Finally, Hanzo prompted the cowboy, and that seemed to remind him that he’d made a noise.

 

“Ah. I was jus’ wonderin’ if’n you’ve ever been here.”

 

Really? Hanzo’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t get a chance to answer before the retainer gestured for them to enter the hotel. As they moved, the conversation continued.

 

“No. I’ve never been in Veracruz.”

 

A clipped answer -- Hanzo didn’t want to talk. McCree, on the contrary, did -- he wanted to apologise, for something. The rudeness on the plane was the most likely answer -- but more than anything, McCree just wanted some form of communication. After whatever the hell had happened on base, he was handling this complete cut-off of social interaction poorly… 

 

Of course, McCree had no way of knowing Hanzo’s thoughts, and how they so closely mirrored his own. So, as they entered the building, Hanzo relented.

 

“I’ve never known you to make small talk, McCree, and I’m not inclined to it either. So is this something that needs to happen right now, or can this wait?” 

 

The answer was made for him once the two men were ushered into a room. At the opposite end, a two individuals sat together, leaning over a small table and speaking in hushed whispers. The hotel security detail nodded to the Overwatch agents, deferring to their authority with no desire to besmirch the reputation of the hotel. McCree was busy letting his strategic gaze run over every inch of the parlour, memorizing structure, occupants, intakes, and exits, while Hanzo kept his eyes on the two men -- well, the man and the omnic -- who seemed engrossed in the holographic display on the surface before them. Eventually, the omnic noticed them, and with a gentle nudge to their companion, the two individuals were both facing their newest visitors.

 

“Ah!  _ Hola _ ! You must be  _ señors  _ McCree and Shimada!”

 

The man stood up, crossing over to the front side of the desk with a smile that seemed blindingly confident. His hand stretched out, and before Hanzo knew what was happening, he was caught up in a handshake with a man who ferociously pumped at his arm before offering the same motion to McCree. Of course, McCree stared at the offending hand as though it had just insulted his livelihood, and with a nervous chuckle, the man retracted it.

 

“Ah, not the touchy type? That is okay,” he leaned back on the table, nerves clear in the tightness around his eyes but expression otherwise well-schooled; Hanzo was mildly impressed. 

 

“I am Jorge Herrera, and this is my partner, Poinsettia.”

 

A metallic hand, slim fingered and pristine but for the subtle silver band around the fourth finger, raised itself from behind the table. Hanzo nodded in acknowledgement, while McCree pinched the brim of his hat down just a smidge.

 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Herrera. I am Agent Shimada, and this is Agent McCree -- we will be responsible for your personal protection until Monterrey.”

 

From there, the conversation began to rotate around the specifics of the transportation. After the brief gathering in the hotel (a soiree of sorts, as Poinsettia explained, to ease tensions and encourage publicity), the omnic-human activists would be moved to the boat secured at the nearest port. Overwatch agents were tasked with maintaining the safety of the route, with Jesse and Hanzo acting as the last line of defence if everything went to shit. 

 

_ “I have every confidence that it won’t even come to that,” Jorge had declared, and if Hanzo hadn’t known any better, he’d have said that Poinsettia’s facial plates took on a fond, if concerned, gleam.  _

 

The boat would take them to Tampico, and they would use a combination of side-roads and main roads to pass through Ciudad Victoria on their way to Monterrey. The formalities of the plan were outlined, once more, despite Jorge’s insistence that both he and Poinsettia had gone over the released details time and time again. The casual nature of the human activist was grating on McCree’s nerves, and Hanzo could practically feel his companion growing weary of the politics involved in such a mission. 

 

Finally, after what had seemed like an eternity (although Hanzo assured the grumbling cowboy next to him that it was, in fact, only about an hour and fifteen minutes), both Overwatch agents were shown to their quarters for the night and given a chance to prepare for the evening. 

 

“I still don’t see the point in having to dress all… fancy.”

 

McCree grumbled, walking out of the bathroom with a clean, white dress shirt half-way done up. A glove rested on his prosthetic hand, and beneath the draping shirt, a swath of chest hair laid unruly as though protesting the get-up. Hanzo was a startling contrast to the untucked, half-groomed mess that McCree was, his own suit done impeccably, and his hair slicked back with a more precise care put in than usual. As the swordsman finished adjusting his own cufflinks, he let his horrified gaze sweep over the mess of a man before the full-body mirror in their room, and with an exasperated sigh that would make Steve Harvey proud, he moved closer to the cowboy.

 

“We are dressing  _ appropriately _ for the black tie event that we will be attending tonight.” 

 

McCree wrinkled his nose as Hanzo turned him around, the proximity between them reddening the cowboy’s face while Hanzo did his best to hide his own reaction. Deft fingers worked on buttoning up the starch shirt, and really, Hanzo was doing his damnedest not to audibly gulp at the close up of McCree’s chest. 

 

A difficult task when he was also trying to avoid eye contact.

 

“Okay, but if they let me keep my  _ usual _ shit on, then I could just stand outside. No harm, no foul.”

 

It wasn’t at all fair for Hanzo to look so good in a suit anyways -- the man was already groomed to a standard that made McCree think long and hard about his own personal grooming before finally relenting and admitting perpetual defeat. 

 

With a few rough tugs, Hanzo tucked his companion’s shirt in.

 

“You own, what, two pairs of pants? You’re luckily they aren’t making you shave the mess you call facial hair,” Hanzo snorted, fighting the eye roll valiantly (and losing).

 

A gasp, and McCree’s hand went straight to his jaw.

 

“That’s not funny,” he sounded almost hurt. 

 

“I wasn’t joking.”

 

McCree’s eyes narrowed, brain running through the odds that Hanzo was poking fun at him versus the odds that he was serious, and… he didn’t like his chances. So once the shirt was done up, he slipped away to grab his jacket, keeping one eye on his companion as the swordsman began to hide away weapons.

 

“Ain’t your first kinda black-tie what’s it, huh?”

 

There it was again -- McCree was prompting small talk. Almost with suspicion, Hanzo paused, shoelaces still in his hand. After a moment, he resumed tying them.

 

“No.”

 

“... care to elaborate?”

 

“Is this more of your unnecessary small talk?” 

 

That had been harsher than he had intended, and whatever vestiges of socialisation remained in McCree seemed to wither. The last few minutes were spent in silence, until each of the men had finished preparing and could exit the room together. They would join the event and do a second sweep of the hotel plaza before the social event began, but before Hanzo could lead them out, McCree wrapped his hand around his elbow, holding him back. Hanzo’s eyes narrowed at the grip before darting up to Jesse’s face.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

No nonsense, the tone cut the silence unceremoniously, and Hanzo shook himself free of the loose hold.

 

“Could you be more specific?”

 

McCree’s eyebrows furrowed, and he ran his fingers through styled hair, missing the familiar weight of his hat on his head.

 

“Hell, I don’t know what I did this time, but something feels… I don’t know,  _ off. _ I dunno if s’something I did, or whether it was on account o’me being a bit snappy on the plane but -- “

 

“McCree, now is  _ not  _ the time for this discussion,” Hanzo interrupted and he reached out to open the door only to have it slammed against by a dusky hand, curled into a loose fist. 

 

“Well then, when is it time? ‘Cause this talking-not-talking bullshit is startin’ to piss me off.”

 

He was growling, teeth bared, and Hanzo felt his pride wanting to rise up in response. He could feel the stir of energy in his gut, but rather than the dragons demanding release, they seemed to curl in anxiety. A loud groan punctuated the sensation, and not unlike an lovesick teenager, Hanzo hit the door with his forehead, a resounding  _ thunk _ answering him.

 

That was enough to make McCree backtrack exponentially.

 

“Uh… Hanzo?”

 

“No, shut up. We’re not doing this right now.”

 

“Uh. Right. But, you’re -- I’m confused.”

 

This man was a headache and a half. Finally,  _ finally,  _ Hanzo turned to face McCree, a single finger creasing the chest of the other’s suit.

 

“ _ You’re _ confused? I’m confused! This is all confusing! First you’re mad, then you’re not, then you’re talking to me, then you’re hiding out in your room for days on end, then you’re snapping at me for no reason!” 

 

Hanzo’s hands hit the air, gesticulating wildly as he scrunched together his eyebrow, gaze hitting the ceiling briefly. 

 

“I don’t get any of it! I want to be mad at you for being a petulant child who growls more than you speak, but then I look at you and all I want to do is kiss you until you forget how to frown! But you change so quickly between not giving me the time of day --”

 

“Hanzo?”

 

“-- and practically kidnapping me to watch movies on the couch --”

 

“Hanzo.”

 

“-- that it’s impossible for me to figure out whether you like me or you’re just  _ bored _ enough that --”

 

“Hanzo! Oh for the love of…”

 

“-- you figure that I’m better than --”

 

This time, it wasn’t the increasingly exasperated pleas of the cowboy that cut off Hanzo’s words. It was no sound that interrupted his rambling mess of anxiety and accidental confession. No, instead McCree had covered his mouth and physically cut off the source of the word-vomit. 

 

Right.

 

McCree had covered his mouth.

 

With his mouth.

 

A hand held the side of Hanzo’s head, tilting his face ever so slightly upwards to get lost in the firm touch of chapped lips on his own, softer mouth. A moment of shock left Hanzo unmoving, before he let his eyes slip closed, melting into the heated touch. There was a light pull on his bottom lip, just as McCree pulled away, and at least Hanzo wasn’t the only one with a face redder than roses when the kiss ended. Neither man said anything for what seemed like eons, each of them staring at the wide eyes of the other with static humming between them. Finally, with agonising awkwardness, McCree cleared his throat and stepped back, retracting his hand.

 

“I. Um. I’ll see you downstairs.”

 

With barely a hint of hesitation, the cowboy fumbled with the door handle, finally opening it and disappearing on the other side. Once alone, Hanzo stared blankly at the space recently made vacant before him. 

 

He was still processing what had just happened, until…

 

“Ah?! That explained?! Nothing!”

 

He screeched, and ethereal blue wrapped itself around his wrists as he clutching at his own hair, white knuckled.

 

_ Wow!  _

 

Came a sentiment decidedly not from himself, as Ao appeared before him, floating weightlessly as she peered at the door. Hanzo leaned against the wood behind him, shell-shocked and looking helplessly to the dragon next to him.

 

_ I think I owe Mizu money, _ Ao admitted, just as the other dragon appeared, perching regally on one of the two beds in the suite, front legs crossed with a false sense of dignified detachment.

 

_ You weren’t completely wrong. _

 

Mizu’s rumbling tone snapped Hanzo back to reality, and groaning, the swordsman asked the dreaded query.

 

“What, in the name of all that is sacred, are you two talking about?”

 

_ We had a bet!  _

 

Ao announced, as Hanzo slid down the door to land gracelessly on the carpet. He didn’t want to know what the two spirits had bet on, too worried that it would be exactly what he expected, so he buried his face in his hands and prayed to whatever merciful beings remained that they would shut up and not --

 

_ On whether or not you would freak out before or after McCree kissed you. _

 

Draped around his shoulders, Ao continued cheerily, ignoring the low tone of defeat coming nonstop from Hanzo’s throat. She ignored his plight, unsympathetic to the not-so-tragic love life of her soul-companion. 

 

_ I thought for sure you would freak out afterwards, and Mizu ended up being right. _

 

He didn’t want to know. Ao was done talking, and Hanzo clung to the scrap of faith he had in his less troublesome soul dragon, invoking all the guidance and wisdom and otherworldliness Mizu had shown throughout the years, as well as the disinterest in petty affairs.

 

_ Mm. I had guess that you would freak out 24 hours in advance, and then make a fool of yourself by squealing afterwards.  _

 

There was no god. 

 

Only embarrassment. And rude spirit guides. 

  
And really,  _ really _ confusing cowboys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot's about to get juicier. And more violent? Who knows.


	11. Twin Dragons Scorned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow, would you look at that; an update! Sorry for the long wait, apparently studying for engineering > writing at the moment. But this is still happening, I do promise.
> 
> A warning ahead for graphic depictions of violence.

There wasn't much of a chance for the two men to discuss what had happened in the hotel room, and Hanzo for one had no intentions of letting it distract from his work. It would be utterly immature to be distracted by the way McCree’s suit fit him, or to let his eyes settle for too long on the way the man leaned against the edge of the hotel ballroom, his own dark gaze sweeping the crowd as the night went on. No, that would be inexcusable behaviour to indulge in when he had a responsibility to keep an eye on Poinsettia and Jorge.

 

“So… I’m thinking you haven’t asked him out yet.”

 

The omnic voice to his right made Hanzo jump so badly he nearly dropped the water glass in his hand. A flurry of Japanese curses dropped from his lips, with nothing sacred as his fright left him gripping the glass with enough force to nearly crack it. 

 

Poinsettia gazed at him with the smooth features of most omnic kind - unlike their resident Shambali monk, the model omnic before him had a sleek, minimalist design with metallic panels smooth and mostly without breaks. If he recalled correctly, Poinsettia had initially been designed for some sort of aesthetic purpose, explaining the care taken into the admittedly fragile appearance. The lack of bumps and ridges were interrupted only by the slight seams in the stationary portions of the omnic’s shell and a flexible material of sorts in the joints of their arms, fingers, and other movable body parts. The biggest difference between the omnic Zenyatta and Poinsettia was that on Poinsettia’s white base coat, a plethora of winding patterns were painted lovingly, as though tattooing the original coat of metallic shine. 

 

“I - I beg your pardon?”

 

Tonight was not Hanzo’s night apparently, as his continuing mistakes seemed to demonstrate. But whether for good or evil, Poinsettia was poised enough for the both of them, since the omnic made a sound not unlike laughter as his seams glowed a pleasant orange in sync with the sound. 

 

“The other agent - McCree. You’re looking at him the way Jorge tends to look at me when he thinks I won’t notice.”

 

Was he blushing? He might have been blushing. Grown men should decidedly not blush. Overwatch members even less so. Before he could make his case though, the other was forging on.

 

“I’m not always the best at subtlety, to be honest,” the wave of a mechanical hand seemed to direct the words and give the expressionless features of Poinsettia’s omnic shell… a little more emotion. 

 

“Human beings are creatures of intense subtlety, and while I’ve learned a great deal about emulating such things, I think that human beings and omnics alike often suffer from a distinct lack of communication.”

 

The line of Hanzo’s mouth felt tighter and thinner with every passing moment. There was a great deal of need coming to fruition wherein he really wanted to be anywhere  _ but _ next to the easy-going omnic, and for the love of all that he had ever held dear to himself, he couldn’t -  _ couldn’t  _ \- reply to Poinsettia and maintain his dignity so all he had to do was keep his mouth shut.

 

For once in his life, he was grateful for his crippling social anxiety.

 

“Ah! Poinsettia! There you are!”

 

The booming timbre of an affection deprived Jorge seemed to save Hanzo from further stoic suffering. Far be it from Hanzo to really appreciate the company of a loud and sometimes rather affectionate man ( _ he vehemently refused to think of the exception to that rule _ ), but Jorge’s timing was no less than a godsend to the swordsman’s dying soul. The Latino man slid an arm around his robotic companion, and smiled at Hanzo with the same expression so often shared with the press. It was a carbon-copy smile to the one in the briefing dossier.

 

“I take it you aren’t dying of boredom yet, Agent Shimada? I find all the political parties to be much duller than those held outside the eye of the press.”

 

He wasn’t in the mood for conversation with Jorge either, despite the latter’s attempts to engage him. Hanzo’s disinterest, however strong, did not impede his formality, and when the swordsman responded, he inclined his head to try and balance out his disinterest in the overly-formal event.

 

“My personal interest in this event has little impact on my attentiveness and commitment to my work.”

 

Perhaps, had he been younger, he would have been cockier or arrogant about his distaste. Years of service had humbled him somewhat, and years of meditation had finished what that service had begun. Jorge’s winning grin didn’t fade though, and neither did his charisma.

 

“A man of diligence! I must say, I can’t imagine Overwatch’s presence is truly necessary here, but I would be a fool to turn away such pleasant company.”

 

It was here that Poinsettia spoke up again, tone still pleasant and soothing.

 

“They are here for a good reason.”

 

Only then did Jorge sigh, frowning thoughtfully as though the words made all the difference.

 

“Yes, of course  _ amor.  _ But anonymous threats? Attempted blackmail and all these ‘promises’ of violence… it’s so very cloak-and-dagger. Look around us - the biggest threat we have are those who wield words with their hate. It’s no different than the violence all around.”

 

Hanzo wondered if he could escape this conversation any sooner without being impolite. He doubted it. It wasn’t that the anti-omnic violence wasn’t concerning for him, but his expertise was not in listening to delegates and protest-leaders wax poetic about their philosophies. He just wanted to ruminate in peace (and maybe internally panic about his relationship, although that was probably too unprofessional to do without also bringing a deep shame upon himself).

 

“Agent Shimada, you’ll have to excuse us,” Jorge forged on, either ignorant or simply courteous of Hanzo’s lack of interest in small talk. He placed a kiss upon Poinsettia’s temple, and grabbed the other by the hand before winking once more to the increasingly relieved agent.

 

“We have a party to liven up!”

 

Poinsettia was pulled away towards the ballroom floor, which had (until that point) been mostly comprised of well-to-do folks standing around and chatting with drinks in their hands and a mix of sincerity and superficiality among those here. But Jorge and Poinsettia cut through the motley crowd of campaign supporters and those who simply wished to leech off of the publicity of the equal rights campaign. Despite the tumultuousness of their campaign, the lovers smiled at one another with … downright cheesiness, really. Like they had been pulled straight out of some romantic feel-good movie. Hanzo watched, a softness falling over his stern features as the Jorge’s arms slipped around Poinsettia’s waist and they began to sway to the music, earning pointed looks of thinly concealed judgement, of appreciation, and even of envy.

 

And if Hanzo fell into the lattermost category, well, that was for him and his hidden dragons to know.

The rest of the night had gone smoothly, with one of the perimeter agents shutting down escalating violence a block over from the conference hall. To be honest, Hanzo found himself reminiscing on the older days of Overwatch, before they weren’t so much as permitted to gather together. They had fewer resources now, and were closer knit due to the smaller pool of agents, but there were some similarities. Keeping the peace was a higher priority now - at least for this mission - and it was a far departure from the shady operations of Blackwatch.

 

The road to Monterrey was not a smooth one, and Hanzo was vaguely thankful that they were being moved in a pseudo-convoy to be honest. He wouldn’t want to be responsible for driving on neither the run-down back road they were using nor the busy traffic of the cities dotted along the way. Luckily (likely for all the lives in the converted minibus), Hanzo was  _ not _ driving, instead sitting up in one of the back seats. Jorge had fallen asleep somehow in spite of the occasional jerk of the vehicle, and Poinsettia had one hand resting on his partner’s leg while the other flicked idly through a electronic book of sorts. In the seat row beside them, there was one of the publicists typing away on a practically  _ ancient _ holopad, and of course, McCree was lounging in another seat with his hat angled over his face.

 

Hanzo rolled his eyes at the nonchalance, mostly from habit, and cast his eyes back out to the passing scenery.

 

There was something calming about watching vaguely familiar surroundings pass by. Even if he had yet to travel this particular road to Ciudad Victoria, in this specific region of Mexico, the flora and fauna resembled past missions, past travels post-Overwatch, and he found himself quietly reflecting on those times again.

 

His mind liked to trap him in times long-gone. It had once been much worse, when he was too close to the events that had almost taken his brother from him (that had almost had him destroy his brother entirely), the events that had led to his arrest and later recruitment into Overwatch’s darker counterpart. He had grown since then, as loathe as he was to admit it, but the bittersweetness of melancholy recollection had a siren’s call that tended to leave no man untouched. 

 

It was better not to entertain the reminiscing. Too many twists and turns to get stuck in, and he was still on-duty, however lax the duty may have been. Not for the first time, he wondered about the validity of the information they’d picked up on, the chatter about risks to Poinsettia and Jorge great enough to warrant the involvement of a formerly-legal organisation the likes of Overwatch. Jorge had questioned it, but he hardly counted that as an informed opinion. Of course, had he any clue what laid in wait, he’d probably have chastised himself for tempting the fates with his thoughts alone.

 

Trouble started fifteen minutes from the checkpoint.

 

“Checkpoint two, checkpoint two, Agent Shimada calling for sitrep.”

 

Military code was still engrained in Overwatch even without their legitimate backing. It felt silly to Hanzo, the way that childhood nicknames feel silly when you go home to where you grew up (or when you went home to your cyborg brother, he supposed). He waited for the reply as McCree began to shift, grumbling in the corner.

 

Silence and radio static were his response.

 

“Checkpoint two, checkpoint two, how copy?”

 

Something uneasy settled in his lungs, a furrow of his brow the only outward sign of his disconcertment. They weren’t far from the checkpoint, and there was a chance that the sketchy transmission was to do with this (their resident publicist, Sam, had been grumbling for the better part of an hour about her slower internet speed), but there was something wrong. The uncertainty of the uneasiness only made his jaw clench. 

 

“Hanzo?”

 

The sound of his own voice from the rising cowboy across from him was the last sound that Hanzo actually half-enjoyed hearing before the world was thrown into complete and utter chaos. 

 

A sharp jerk brought the bus off of the road, and the entire vehicle pitched violently to the side. Everything was sharp in a second, as they tumbled off the road and barrel rolled into the foliage-strewn ditch. Glass shattered from the windows, the world spinning around them. Hanzo was thrown off the bus seat, his head smashing into the metal ceiling as the bus rolled the third time.  The world went fuzzy, and there was a crumpling of metal as the bus slammed to a stop against the trees by the road. There wasn’t silence afterwards, his ears were ringing and Hanzo had to blink rapidly, trying to clear his vision and figure out what had happened. Dim sounds of panic reached him though, and the next time he closed his eyes, the world seemed to fall away despite his best efforts.

 

Something grabbed at him, and he lashed out. He tried to fight through the fog - a downed agent was a dead agent, after all. But the hit to his head left him out of it.

 

“ _ -zo! _ ”

 

Someone was shouting. He was on the crumpled ceiling of the bus, then something bright was in his eyes and he felt dirt below him. 

 

“- _ mmit! Get down! _ ”

 

McCree? That was McCree. Then loud pops, and the ringing began to subside. The sun. It was the sun. He was outside the bus. The flood gates opened and Hanzo snapped to awareness with a painful gasp, realization smacking him in the face. The bus crashed. The pops were gunshots. The bus crashed.  _ The bus crashed _ .

 

He was up like a shot only to get knocked down none-too-gently by the other agent’s hand. Before he could level a glare at him, McCree was yelling.

 

“Stay down!”

 

A bullet ricocheted off the hulking mass of metal before them, and Hanzo obeyed out of the sheer instinct that was coming back to him. His head hurt like hell, but that was a secondary concern. 

 

_ Where’s my sword?  _

 

_ Where are the delegates? _

 

“Hanzo, if you don’t stay down, y’er gonna get your head blown off.”

 

More than anything, he wanted to scoff at that idea, get up and fight. But, Blackwatch trained assassin or otherwise, the hit to the head was enough to keep him down for a few minutes. There was once a man who proclaimed that “war is months of boredom punctuated by moments of extreme terror”, and the same could be said for firefights. A few minutes out of the ‘game’, to use the infantile terms Genji was so fond of, and one was wont to miss the entire confrontation. But a life’s worth of stubbornly fighting either in his own name or for the organisation that pulled him and his brother out of their doomed lives, put the urge to fight through the pain in him.

 

Hanzo grunted, pulling himself up with a hand grasping at the crumpled metal of the bus they sheltered behind. If he could just get his sword…

 

“Dammit Hanzo! I can’t help you and keep these fuckers from taking us out!”

 

The growl was kept just quiet enough to not be heard over the cacophony of metal rings, the seemingly distant shouts that he could still barely grasp above the ringing still in his ears. McCree wasn’t wrong; he was very likely concussed, and with the micro-bio emitters somewhere in the crumpled wreck of the converted bus, there wasn’t much he could do without just getting in the way.

 

He hated that. Not because he doubted McCree’s ability, but because every bone in his body was proud and independent and the thought of leaving the gunman to fight off whoever was attacking them alone sat poorly on his soul.

 

Everything told him to get up and fight - everything but the desert storm in McCree’s eyes. 

 

He stayed down.

 

He let the bitter taste in his mouth settle, and propped himself up against the bus. Should something go horribly wrong, he was capable of using a gun - not unlike McCree was doing right now, quickscoping with an occasional grunt of annoyance at his efficiency. The fluid motions were muscle memory based, something that didn’t surprise Hanzo in the least. Load. Lock. Aim. Shoot. The flexing of practiced muscles and the quiet whirring of a poorly kept metal appendage worked in tandem. Practice. Memory. Instinct.

 

He thought about the coyote again, and closed his eyes. Some part of him was dimly aware that falling under was the last thing he wanted to do, but his mind and his body were at odds, and Hanzo slipped out of the realm of the lucid.

 

The next series of events happened to Hanzo, but he seemed to experience them from outside of himself. The gunfight went sour quickly. There was a growing sense of panic as McCree tried to keep up, but they were clearly outnumbered and every shot was interrupted by increasingly frantic attempts to raise someone on the comms. There was a sharper sense of clarity associated with the debris-strewn ditch below him than there was the firefight around him.

 

Then, a warmth encompassed him, and the telltale metallic taste of a biomedical emission field started to activate his endocrine system - adrenaline shot through him, and his eyes opened half in surprise and half in preparation. He was up in moments, sitting up with the pain of the concussion waning and the jumpiness that came with overactive nerve endings thanks to the medical machination. 

 

Before him, Jorge knelt with an uncharacteristic quiet, cradling the glowing device in his hands and staring with teary eyes at Hanzo’s crumpled form.

 

“They killed them.”

 

And let it be known that the immediate fear that seized Hanzo was that he had lost one Jesse McCree, only to be briefly followed by the realisation that the cowboy in question was still providing a cover fire to keep their enemies pinned. Which meant…

 

“Poinsettia.”

 

The crack in Jorge’s voice was a better glimpse into grief than any medium could hope to translate. Sure enough, behind him, there was the still, lightless form of the painted omnic with a hole through their cerebrum plating. It was sad, yes, but Hanzo was aware of his own detachment from death after overexposure, and he steadied himself into a crouch, already scanning the scattered debris to try and locate his  _ saya _ , the traditionally styled scabbard that held his swords.

 

_ There _ . 

 

He moved to dart over to the crash-thrown weapons but Jorge’s hand darted out and snatched his wrist, a fire and anger in the man’s dark eyes, dusty lips a thin line in his usually glowing face. The grip around Hanzo’s wrist was stronger than the lean delegate had any right to be, and the swordsman was ready to snap at the civilian for acting irresponsibly. Jorge was quick though, his words dark and from a place only bereft lovers seem to know.

 

“Do not let them get away with this shit,  _ pendejos _ …”

 

And like that, Hanzo was released with a storm sparking under his feet. The familiarity of the sword in his hand, the aftertaste of the medical aid in his mouth, the way that their enemies would narrow their eyes then shout in fright… it was all an ages old sensation that he revelled in. Sometimes he wondered if there was a special sort of Hell for those like him, those who lived and breathed combat, wearing defenses like a second skin. But not now. Now was reserved for the fluid motions constant in his form, the way that he crossed the combative zone with a flurry of steps and a swipe of his sword. Someone’s bullet pulsed off his thin tactical armour, and in the next second they were on the ground, a clean slice through their hand and a well-placed kick sending them to the ground.

 

There seemed to be a clear organisation - a team of twelve (four downed through his own doing and McCree’s combined) with similar, unmarked uniforms. They popped out from behind six distinct deployable covers, two to each save for the odd ones who had lost their partner. There was something horribly familiar about this though, something that clung stubbornly in the back of his head. 

 

But there was no time. Another strike and one of the enemy was taken down. A gunshot rang alarmingly close to his head, but it was echoed by a thump of a body, and he understood McCree was covering him. Somehow, that kindled the storm in his skin, and he strode forth.

 

Step, glide and strike, feel the resistance of the tactical armour bow to the sharp edge of his sword. A woman dual-wielding pistols spun out from cover, plasmic-bullets biting into his shoulder as he rolled back. Another sharp cry from the rifle. The woman grunted and fell. Like clockwork, like a well-worn book, it unfolded in seemingly slow motion. They worked well together, and a part of Hanzo felt warmed by that, like somehow the man behind him was neither trying to contain him nor coddle him, but simply enable him. There was something to be said for chemistry on the battlefield, after all.

 

_ Not the time. _

 

Two more fell in quick succession before someone put up more of a fight. His sword caught on the blade of a  _ kukuri _ , the agent holding it tucked into a low stance. Hanzo feinted to the left and spun around, sweeping his leg. The other blade-wielder practically danced over the move. They went toe-to-toe, a rapid conversation of metal and practiced forms. In the distance of the battlefield around them, another two shots went off. The woman before him was well-trained, but Hanzo had not lived this long without a few tricks up his sleeve - sometimes quite literally. His opponent swung her curved blade and, in mid-arc, he flicked out one of his  _ horokubiya  _ \- a small flash-bang like grenade of his own machinations. Prepared as he was for it, he slid beneath her legs and slashed at the knees in a single motion, using the momentum of his body to power the strike. Without slowing, he rolled back to his feet and placed a kick on the back of her head, rendering her quickly unconscious.

 

It was always interesting how time seemed to distort around certain events. A fight, a crash… 

 

…  _ a mistake. _

 

The smoke cleared too slowly for him to linger, but the combative zone was missing something he was aware of only when he stepped from his own smoke to find an organised movement of the remaining agents. They had all turned to fire on him, forcing the swordsman into cover. The remaining four were converging on the three vehicles they had arrived in, flanked by six others. 

 

Six others?

 

Suddenly the tactics began to make sense. Hanzo recalled one of the tactics that Blackwatch had employed, one of the tactics that he himself had been a part of. The smash-and-grab style to apprehend hostages from a moving vehicular convoy. Make a scene, drive into cover, then draw out those that can defend themselves and take who you were looking for. 

 

_ McCree. _

 

“McCree!”

 

His voice cut through the remaining pops of gunfire only barely, and something tightened around him when he realised there were no more loud shouts of sniper fire, no familiar voice calling back to him. Only when the slam of a vehicle door and an order to ‘ _ move out _ ’ reached him did he realise that Jesse and Jorge were missing entirely from behind him, not a body to be found next to the omnic shell left alone.

 

_ No. _

 

He tore out from cover and swore, feeling the electrical storm become more than just metaphorical, feeling the rush of power begin to buzz through his arms as his eyes lit up and the dragons rushed to the surface. 

 

“ _ Ryuu-ga wagatekiwo kurau! _ ”

 

The roar of the dragons seemed to blot out everything else, wiping out those that dared to remain in front of him. And yet two of the vehicles peeled off, fishtailing as the dragons did little more than nudge the backs of them. Rage unlike that which he had felt for many years drove him forward and true to his word, he consumed his enemies with the bite of twin dragons scorned. Blood and metal were his world, the pain of retaliation from those who had remained abandoned by their cohorts only driving him further. 

 

By the time the back-up convoy reached him, not two minutes later, there was no one left standing around him - only Hanzo, kneeling in the middle of the metal-strewn road with something waging like thunder in his eyes

 

_ He was not going to fail McCree again. _

 


	12. The Man the Desert Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is a wild thing, all sharp edges and dangerous lines. They've always known, but it is one thing to know of the harsh heat of the desert, and another to have it beating upon your skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, it's been one hell of a wait for this one. I've been busy moving, studying, and generally trying to keep my life in order, but I've come back to you with another chapter of this behemoth. I'm going to be going back to older chapters and editing them a little to flow better, but if you don't feel like reading them, don't worry; the content won't be changing. Merely the way in which the content is delivered.
> 
> I can now be found on tumblr @brokewriterboy for any and all questions and messages pertaining to this story (or anything else for that matter).

Have you ever fallen asleep on an arm, and woke only to find it completely numb? The lack of sensation in that limb is at once curious and terrifying; you smack it around, try to wiggle your fingers, anything to bring back the sensation there. It’s a numbness that fades into pins and needles and then back into normalcy. 

 

When McCree woke, he didn’t even have the weight of a numb arm. His prosthetic was missing, leaving behind an imbalance that poked at some animal part of him, throwing him from absolute unconsciousness into a panicked waking in seconds. He hadn’t detached the limb since arriving at Overwatch, too paranoid and on edge to entertain the notion of leaving himself half-unprotected even in the ‘secure’ base. The shock of its absence had him up like a bolt - only for pain to erupt in his skull and send him back to a slumped position against the wall.

 

“ _ Guay!  _ Agent McCree!”

 

A voice cut through the dark. Familiar, but unplaceable in the current half-asleep state he found himself in. The wall behind him was warm, and it was sheer stubbornness that kept him from slipping back under. He needed to get a hold on his surroundings, find out where he was and what he had to do; of the convoy being taken down, memories of a firefight flashed through his head, Hanzo moving forwards while he provided cover fire, and then… they were flanked? Reinforcements. He was taken down and surprised, distracted ( _stupid_ _fucking mistake_ ). But the Spanish voice that addressed him was not the curt tone he knew to be the swordsman’s so who…?

 

There was enough light leaking in through slats near the ceiling of the rectangular room to see where they were. The inside of a metallic train, likely an old luggage car given the mesh metal cages that seemed to be converted to cells for himself and… 

 

“Jorge?”

 

He ventured, narrowing his eyes against the dark as though it would help him pick out the figure he could see coming into focus in the cell across the car from him. A couple feet away, but still isolated.

 

“Yes. Are you - you went down hard. Are you okay?”

 

_ Good question.  _ He shifted, testing the aches of his body and finding them not too bad, actually. He was sore, his head hurt, and he felt a little like throwing up - not too varied from half his mornings, really. The only troublesome feature was his missing arm, but the synthetic grafts and the metal they attached to were still present; and seemingly undamaged. So he was fine to about his shoulder and the port meant to connect to his prosthetic. 

 

“Hell, I’ve been through worse,” came his answering grumble, his attempt to sit up slower this time and more considerate of the pounding headache he hosted. 

 

“ _ Señor, _ I… would hate to see worse.”

Well, fair enough. McCree managed a huff of breath that could’ve been a chuckle, but he was a little more focused on surveying the current situation than he was presenting a friendly façade. Jorge was a civilian though, and the less panicked the other was, the easier an attempt at escape would be. There was always the idea of  _ stay put until someone comes for you _ , but given his track record with Overwatch, he wasn’t sure he was willing to gamble on that. 

 

His lips burned at the thought, but Hanzo was - he  _ wanted _ to think he’d come for them, but idle men turned quickly to dead men, and McCree didn’t much feel like dying in a hot tin can.

 

“How long was I out for?”

 

He asked, letting his eyes sweep the room - two doors, one going to the front of the train and one to the back. The movement was something he could feel; not the smooth glide of a hyper train on electromagnetic tracks, but the rhythmic  _ thud-thud-thud _ of actual metal on metal. Like a rusted heartbeat. 

 

“Not long - maybe… an hour or two? There were… so many of them, I didn’t even see... “

 

Jorge’s voice broke, and not from fear. That was a surprise that had McCree looking back to the man, slumped across the car with his hand half-covering his mouth. Eyes stuck on the floor.

 

“They… killed Poinsettia. After you went down.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

Probably not the nicest thing he could have said, but the word slipped past his lips without a second thought. That would explain the expression -  _ grief. _ It was probably why Jorge was so calm too; no need to panic when you were trying to swim through the cloying grief that had wrapped itself around you. In his defence, he did  _ feel _ bad that Poinsettia had died - but a lifetime of people dying taught you that some jobs went to shit, and you couldn’t dwell on it. As angry as he was that he couldn’t have gotten the couple to Monterrey alive and well, he needed to be focused on getting Jorge and him out  _ now. _

 

He wasn’t good at sympathy, and Jorge didn’t need empty condolences. They  _ both _ needed to get out and stay alive. 

 

It was difficult to gauge how long they sat there, in silence aside from the quiet sobbing from Jorge’s side of the car. He didn’t think it was appropriate to comment on it, so he left the man to his grief and focused on the way the sun became incrementally redder; it was getting closer to evening, but he doubted it was any later than 18h00. The ‘cells’ were likely luggage cages, used to secure passenger cargo during transit, and on any other day he’d not have an issue crumpling the thing metal. Without his prosthetic, and still in the after effects of unconsciousness (and, given the hangover, probably some sedatives), it wasn’t so easy. Hell, he did a cursory check of his pockets, belt, and shoes and found his knives and pins missing, so he couldn’t even pick the lock. Making noise would draw too much attention, and there was a silhouette towards the front of the train that told him a guard stood at the other side of the door. Surprisingly, the other door seemed clear; it was hard to tell from where he was seated though. 

 

A sigh threatened to escape him, and he let his teeth clamp down on the inside of his cheek. It didn’t make a lick of sense. There was no  _ real  _ point to having him here, so why bother sedating him rather than putting a bullet between his eyes? Jorge made sense - the activist was a political statement waiting to happen, even if having Poinsettia would’ve made the statement a lot more powerful. But him? He was a bounty hunter and a mercenary, a probationary Overwatch agent sure, but with no information and no value to the organization. What use would this group have for a former gangbanger and a current gun-for-hire? His fingers scratched the edge of his beard, nails grazing his cheek. He still didn’t know who’d picked them up, only that they were well trained and knew what they were doing.

 

So why pop Poinsettia and bring  _ him _ ?

 

He couldn’t help when his thoughts strayed to Hanzo, wherever he was. They hadn’t talked since the awkward silence of the convoy, and now he was starting to get the feeling that they wouldn’t get the chance. That probably served him right - some karmic justice the universe was dishing out for him. But the hope that the swordsman would come after them, backed up by his teammates, was waning as time went on and the isolation of the train car got to him.

 

So they needed a plan. 

 

If this group was as well-organized as the ambush seemed to imply, then they’d likely be playing with some familiar tactics. McCree hadn’t been part of a fancy-ass secret agency like Blackwatch, but he’d worked with a few unsavoury and well-funded folks, so he figured he could give a crack at prediction here. They’d already been moved to a new form of transport, so they’d be moved once more - either to a stationary location or to another form of transportation. During the move was when they’d have to make a break for it, and his fingers twitched with the need to be holding his gun - either of them, at this point. The tricky part of running was Jorge; the man was despondent, and without any sort of combat experience, he was dead weight.

 

A part of McCree knew that leaving him behind would increase his own survival chances exponentially. The other part of him, the part that had cost him his arm? It shuddered to think of leaving him to the mercy of whoever this was.

 

Damn. This is why he made such a shitty gangster.

 

Eventually, something had to give way. In this case, it was the door towards the front of the car - it slid open to flood the room with the artificial light from the car over. Having adjusted to the dim, it took a moment for him to blink away his discomfort, just in time to spot a couple of guards in black uniforms at his cell door. One of them fumbled with a key, the other standing calmly with a standard assault rifle. A little overkill, given the small space; if he didn’t know better, he’d figure it was an attempt to intimidate him. Time to prove he wasn’t spooked.

 

The familiarity of the lazy grin on his lips was something that flooded him immediately; he’d played this game a thousand times, and the persona of ‘dopey, fool cowboy’ served him well. Made people let down their guard.

 

“Howdy fellas. Gotta say, y’er dining services leaves somethin’ to be desired.”

 

No response from the grunts; that was too bad. The door swung open, and for a moment he considered using this moment to get out - but it wasn’t right. Too risky, too soon, not enough information. When the guard with the key moved forward and pulled him roughly to his feet, he played up his head injury. He swayed a little more than necessary, though the face of discomfort wasn’t entirely acting; he still fucking hurt. 

 

One of the guards kept a hand just below his pit, a familiar pain there as the other hesitated. Hard to grab the arms of a man missing half of them, and McCree quirked a brow as the armed guard struggled to find a handhold before just balling a fistful of his shirt and pushing him forward. Luckily, Jorge stayed quiet and they left him behind, though it only served to further his confusion. Why him? He’d find out sooner or later, but he wasn’t exactly pleased as punch when he was led into the next room. He didn’t have much time to case his surroundings ( _ it was a repurposed passenger car according to the marks on the ground where furniture was once bolted; now there were just two chairs and a metal table, two lights swinging above, windows covered with blackout curtains _ ) before he was tossed into a chair and restraints were secured around his chest and remaining limbs. Sparse as it was, he recognized the car for what it was - an interrogation room. So either someone was about to be plying him for information he didn’t have, or he was going to figure out real quickly who had taken them and why.

 

Even the subject of interrogation tended to learn something from the experience.

 

“Jesse McCree - still trading loyalties like its going out of style, I see.”

 

The feminine voice wasn’t one he recognized, and he let the confusion twist his expression. It fit the persona, after all, and it didn’t get clearer as the speaker entered the room. She seemed an average woman, skin darker than the touch of the sun would create, with an excitement that made her grin like the Cheshire cat. Still, he didn’t know her; and the look in her eyes made him think that she knew him. The imbalance of knowledge made his gut squeeze uncomfortably, but his smile didn’t falter.

 

“Sorry darlin’, have we met?”

 

Good, that threw her off a bit. The woman’s smile dampened as she came to a stop in front of him, sitting in the chair about an arm’s length across from where he was restrained.

 

“Thought a man like you wouldn’t forget a face so easily, McCree.”

“Well, I tend not t’forget the pretty ones.”

 

_ Slap. _

 

The backhand wasn’t surprising, but it didn’t agree easily with the headache that raged between his temples. It helped him though - whoever this was, she wasn’t as in control as she thought she was. There was emotion there, inexperience; she wasn’t in charge of this operation. So she wasn’t in charge - but she was sent by whoever was. Why? 

 

“Nina Brown. Of course you don’t  _ fucking _ remember me - too stupid to look past the brim of your own hat,” she sounded mad, but now he was thinking about his hat. He was pretty sure it’d been tossed in the cell with him, and he didn’t fancy leaving it. Shit, she was still talking.

 

“- ran with my brothers back in Deadlock. Got one of them fucking killed too, in your little hero stunt - you remember putting a bullet through Diego’s skull, or do your messes not have names anymore?”  _ Shit. _ That explained why she was pissed with him - his betrayal of Deadlock had been a mess and a half, and he’d taken down over half his chapter in the fallout. Spent a while picking off Deadlock members since then - his favourite pastime. 

 

And Diego was a face he could remember, one of the older guys - he knew him before he’d grown his first chest hair for fuck’s sake. Nina wasn’t wrong though; he didn’t remember shooting him. The whole thing had been a mess, and half the names and faces ran into each other.  _ Glad to know one of those ghosts will have a face now, _ he thought bitterly, not looking forward to his guilt being outfitted with someone he could recognize. He had enough people haunting him, he didn’t really feel like adding more to the list. 

 

Karma. What bullshit.

 

Still, with the woman before him vibrating with the need for vengeance, he needed to play along and figure out how to handle the situation. Dancing with the rattlesnake, and Nina was already hissing.

 

“Diego - Diego Brown. Hell, I remember him. Real cheat at cards, y’know.”

 

There was no answer as Nina shut off her expression, standing and making her way to the table. Her fingers snapped, and one of the guards from before came out of the corner behind him, carrying a canvas bundle of some sort.

 

“Y’know Nina, hurtin’ me ain’t gonna bring your brother back none. If’n you weren’t a part of Deadlock back’n the day, there’s no need for you to get involved in this kinda shit now.”

 

It was a pretty useless thing to say - if she was this deep, there wasn’t much that could convince her to drop the life of crime, and she scoffed as though to confirm his suspicions. Whatever. He wasn’t invested in saving her; people made their own damn decisions. But saying the words, even if he didn’t think she’d acquiesce, helped add to the look. Do-good cowboy, down on his luck, in over his head. 

And damn if he didn’t start to feel the lattermost when the canvas was unrolled, artificial light gleaming off metallic instruments that made his breath hitch a little. Sharps and blunts, pliers and fun little tools he recognized from a lifetime of being both on his side and the other side of this particular little game. The glint of the chrome pieces was matched only by the steel in Nina’s eyes, and the woman grinned at him again.

 

“Oh McCree. Let me show you just how  _ involved  _ you’ve inspired me to be.”

  
  
  
  


“There remains no plan.”

 

Satya’s voice broke Hanzo’s silent isolation, the mild din of the gathering in the room behind him purposefully ignored in favour of the desert he knelt in. He hadn’t left the front of the farmhouse, but neither had he dwelt in the discussions that the team was going through indoors. He had reported, he had tried to express the urgency he felt, but in the end he felt too much like he was screaming in an empty field for all the progress he was making with his associates. It wasn’t entirely their fault; everyone was invested in retrieving Jorge, and the mere suggestion that McCree might have been involved was shot down immediately.

 

(  _ “- it’s possible that they could have had an inside man.” _

_ “Morrison, if you finish this thought by implicating McCree once more, I’ll have someone new to turn the dragon’s on.” _ )

 

But it didn’t assuage his worries. They had no leads, no idea who took them, and though they’d found the vehicles used to abduct Jorge and McCree, there was no indication as to where they’d gone next. The vehicles had all been stolen over the past three weeks, from various locations. It was a cold trail. So he had sequestered himself in the fresh air, the heat of the desert not comforting in the slightest.

 

He had no response for Satya, aside from a slow nod to acknowledge her presence. From the corner of his eye, he could see her struggling with how to proceed; it was with great difficulty that she lowered herself to a kneeling position next to him. Surprising, given her usual struggles with empathy. It was enough to make him turn his head and regard her fully. Her face was still neutral, but there was a tension there that he had learned to pick up on over the development of their friendship.

 

“... would you like for me to stay?”

 

He must have been more troubled than he thought, for Satya to offer such a thing. The offer was considered, but he… didn’t find satisfaction in the thought of someone being near him right now. He was too on edge, the electric shimmer under his skin leaving him unsettled and uncertain. 

 

“It is not necessary.”

The reply might have been rude to many; he wasn’t going to sugarcoat things, and patience was not within his grasp. But Satya didn’t interpret his refusal as rude, if only due to their shared understanding. No need to go through polite motions and false attempts at kindness; if he needed her, he would say so. And he didn’t. So the woman dipped her chin and stood again, brushing the dirt from her knees with poorly veiled disdain. Before she ducked back into the house with the rest of the team (those that had gathered here, as opposed to heading out and searching on cold leads), Hanzo piped up once more.

 

“Thank you, Satya.”

 

“Of course.”

 

And he was alone again.  _ Not entirely,  _ he reminded himself, dragons shifting under his skin. With the team so close by, they had no desire to be shown - but the tension of the day had crept into all of them, and Ao and Mizu were no exception. He didn’t help matters that he had been replaying the entire disaster over and over like a record that refused to end. It wasn’t healthy, to ruminate endlessly on what he could have done, on what went wrong, but it didn’t stop him. A different course of action may have made a difference, may have saved lives, may have spared McCree from being taken.

 

And if McCree wasn’t alive, then -  _ stop that. _

 

He didn’t want to entertain the possibility, but it crept around the edges of his thoughts, taunting him regardless.

 

Wherever his thoughts may have been leading him, he was interrupted by a flashing light out of the corner of his eye. His communicator, usually set to flash blue in a specific pattern to indicate a waiting message, was going off in a shade of purple he hadn’t been aware it was was capable of making. It made no sense, given that if he was truly needed, someone from inside would gather him - it was just his luck to have a broken communicator after the rest of this horrendous day.

 

He meant to replace the device in his pocket when he heard it - a faint sound from the device itself. Louder than speech, unknown; and so he placed it in his ear. Sure enough, there was a pattern; a repetition that was familiar enough to warrant recognition.  _ International Morse Code _ \- and it didn’t take long for him to have out a small pad of paper, recording the dots and dashes until the message repeated itself. When it was done, the words glared at him from the page.

 

TEX MEX

LAREDO 1900

 

Tex Mex - the old railroad, abandoned and (he had believed) unused. The tracks weren’t far from here, and the stop at Laredo was something he could get to in less than an hour; if he left now. That didn’t explain where the information had come from though, the secure line now silent even as the light continued to flash. Now, he saw it for the continued code it was: three dots, three dashes, two dashes, a dash and three dots, dot-dash-dot, dot-dash. It played once more and then stopped, as though aware he’d written down the conveyed message. A part of him knew he needed to report it, needed to get assistance; but they didn’t have  _ time _ if he wanted to make it to Laredo in under an hour.

 

He breathed once. The options were laid out before him. If he brought attention to this, and it was wrong, he’d cost them valuable time. If he was right… 

 

He left his note under a pen, palming the comm and wasting no more time. He had left McCree without support once, and he refused to do it a second time.

  
  
  
  


Nina, evidently, had a lot she needed to work out. Her current method necessitated the repeated cutting and poking and prodding at McCree, something he wasn’t particularly fond of after an hour of watching his blood escape onto the floor through a mix of wounds. The table wasn’t better off; tools left there once she had deemed them used to their fullest extent, joined by two of his teeth to boot. But an hour in to the little bonding session they’d been having, her hand had gone to the device in her ear, and she had sneered something about  _ we’ll continue this later, cowboy _ before leaving him to guards one and two. There was a sharp prick on his neck (drugs?), and his restraints were removed. He was marched back to the car behind them with his guard buddies on either side of him once more. His feet were working on muscle memory at this point, his vision a little tunnelled after the long period of amateur torture.

 

_ I’ve had worse,  _ he tried to remind himself.  _ Done worse.  _

 

Neither sentiment made it easier. Pain was pain. It always sucked.

 

Luckily, he was left behind without a second look, the guards returning to the original car. His head swam, and he stumbled back to the corner, sliding back to the floor and sliding his hand off to the side - yup. His hat. 

 

He had more of a plan now, having swiped a copy of the key from the guard before he’d been moved into Nina’s Funtime Playhouse or whatever the fuck he was going to call the interrogation room in retrospect, but the act of getting up and getting out was Herculean from where he currently sat. He wasn’t going to able to drag his own sorry carcass off this train, let alone Jorge’s.

 

He needed to gather his strength first, needed to rest - then they could act on the plan.  _ Once I’m out of here,  _ he thought through the haze that pain and disassociation brought,  _ I’m gonna need a smoke.  _ The train bounced a little harshly, and he bit his lip to keep from groaning.  _ A smoke, or a hospital’s worth of painkillers.  _

 

Rest wasn’t his friend today though, as the grating sound of metal on metal broke through his jumbled thoughts long enough to send his gaze upwards. Light peeked in through a panel, sunlight at that. He was dully aware that someone was coming into the car, and knew he should be doing something in response; but he couldn’t find the wherewithal to string together a coherent response until the figure dropped down from the ceiling. Shit, he was fading rather fast. 

 

“McCree.”

 

And he was out.

 

_ The horse didn’t stand before him, as it usually did. No, it was just him and the storm; something that he could always hear, always see in the distance. But now it was upon him, thunder roaring through the desert, the mustang’s absence striking fear that only multiplied with the electricity that split the dark sky. He needed to find the horse - the horse - where had it gone? Where had - _

 

“Jesse, please - we’re going to go, I need you to keep your eyes on me.”

 

Despite the calm that the voice was trying to project, he knew that the figure fiddling with the cell door was anxious. He could feel it like a second skin, tight around him. The door. Oh! The door! His hand reached down, eliciting a groan from him and a hissed plea to  _ don’t hurt yourself more, foolish cowboy _ from the figure. But he snatched the key from where he’d stashed it, and it slid most of the way towards the other man. He couldn’t help it though, when one moment he was watching slender fingers snatched the key through the metal mesh and the next moment he was - 

 

_ Face up, the rain sharp against his skin. The rain didn’t come often in the desert, but now, his mother would say  _ ‘nahałtin’  _ \- it was raining. Cold and sharp, like glass thrown from the heavens above him. It hurt, it hurt so badly and he had never been alone in the desert. He shouldn’t have stayed so far from the wild horse, shouldn’t have feared it so much. Now he was alone, and the sand seemed ready to swallow him whole, until a warm breath hit the back of his neck. He knew then, where the mustang had gone. _

 

A hand touched his cheek, in weak slaps, trying to rouse him. To be fair, it did the job, and his heavy eyelids dragged themselves up.

 

“Jus’ tryna get some shut-eye.”

 

He grumbled, narrowing his eyes to see… oh shit, that made sense. Someone had swiped the blood from the corner of his black eye, helping clear his clouded vision. It had taken him a considerable amount of time to recognize the sharp features before him, the harshness of the concern and fury that was in the creased brow and dark eyes trying to keep him in one piece. He had hoped… but having the man before him now made him grin again, the action not exactly comfortable with a split lip. 

 

“Ain’t seen you for a hot minute, swordsman.”

 

Unfortunately, his slurred drawl didn’t appear to calm the man before him, though he was pretty sure Hanzo’s gaze held a flicker of relief now that he was responding. That was good; he wasn’t sure  _ why  _ it was good, but he knew he didn’t want to worry the man more than he had already. It wasn’t just because of his pride, either, though that certainly factored in once Hanzo was trying to get a grip on him and eyed his missing arm, the extent of the damage hidden beneath his shirt.

 

“Can you walk?”

 

Shit, could he? The beat of hesitance didn’t instill confidence in Hanzo nor him, but a glance to the newly freed Jorge reminded him of the urgency of the situation. If he didn’t get up, he had the distinct feeling that the white knuckled grip on his arm was an indication that Hanzo wasn’t planning on leaving him behind.

 

“One way t’find out.”

 

He groaned once the upwards motion had started, missing the sympathetic wince from the swordsman trying to assist in his movement. He managed to keep himself quiet  _ enough,  _ but it was just another show of how unequipped he was for the current getaway. Hanzo tucked under his remaining arm, doing his best to help as the McCree focused on putting one foot in front of the other  _ without _ stumbling. Jorge and Hanzo were speaking beyond his awareness, his head spinning too severely to focus on the exchange as they moved to the next car. It was an important exchange, he caught bits of it ( _ McCree’s not going to… three cars from… then off the train _ ) but trying to extend his awareness beyond the pounding in his head and the taste of blood and rain on his tongue was an impossibility.

 

They moved both too quickly and too slowly, and he mumbled something about leaving behind dead weight before a cutting glare from Hanzo shut him up. Okay, no more suggestions about leaving him behind - though he was pretty sure that without Hanzo keeping him upright, he’d be a cowboy-shaped puddle on the floor.

 

“We’re not far, McCree. Your car was third from the end.”

 

It must have been a smaller train then - which made sense, given that he wasn’t aware of any running lines that still relied on the old fashion contact rails. He meant to nod, only to nearly lose his footing because of it, and the motion was replaced with an affirmative hum.  _ Note to self, no strenuous motions. _

 

“Figures. S’an old cargo hold. Passenger cars’re further up.”

 

The words left his mouth as he thought them, and he briefly wondered how much of what he was thinking was leaving his mouth in a similar fashion. Whatever they dosed him with was working its way through his system, and he wasn’t going to be conscious much longer; but as they passed towards the last car, he tensed and hesitated. The sudden stop had Hanzo staring at him with renewed concern.

 

“Wait -”

 

“What?”

 

Hanzo was snappish but not angry, his tone beyond the realm of comprehensible for the doped cowboy. But he knew what he was missing now, and the reminder had him aching more than any torture could make him ache.

 

“M’guns - need m’guns.”

 

Injured as he was, he  _ needed _ his weapons - they’d cropped up even before he remembered that he was still missing his own arm. But Hanzo tensed, the grip around his waist not easing in the slightest as they began to shuffle forward again, Jorge two paces behind them.

 

“We need to get off the train first - it’s a mobile deadzone, and we can’t be tracked here.”

 

“Hanzo,  _ please, _ I -”

 

“You can’t use them if you’re  _ dead _ , McCree.”

 

There was a ferocity there that he couldn’t stand up to, not with the current state of his consciousness in such peril. Had he been a little more put together, he would have resisted more, would have put his foot down - right now, he could barely manage to keep up as they cleared the second last car and made it to the entrance of the last. Knowing his weapons were being left behind, his  _ arm _ … his guts rolled, a nauseating sensations that keyed him in to the fact that this was going to be one of those moments he regretted. He had no good response to the statement though, and no way of going back on his own, so he was stuck with Hanzo when they finally stopped outside the door of the last car.

 

Something like a curse slipped from Hanzo’s lips, a word he didn’t recognize. They weren’t entering the last car, and the reason why eluded McCree until the swordsman’s voice cut through the din of the moving train much quieter than before.

 

“Seven guards in the last car. They don’t seem aware we’re here, but the pistol I took only has five rounds left.”

 

Had he been in fighting form, this wouldn’t have been as much of an issue - but five bullets and one close range fighter against seven armed guards wasn’t exactly a fight stacked in their favour. Even through his drug and pain-induced dissociation, McCree could see the gears turning in Hanzo’s head as he tried to puzzle his way out of this dilemma. 

 

Well, at least he could finally be of use.

 

“Gun.”

 

Hanzo waved a hand, dismissing his request.

 

“I just said there aren’t enough bullets - I could take a few down, but they’ll return fire before I can switch to my swords. Maybe if I use my  _ horokubiya _ but even then …”

 

“Not f’er you, Hanzo.”

 

There was a look of pure incredulity from the swordsman as his clarification sunk in. He must have looked as bad as he felt if Hanzo was looking so put out by the notion of putting a weapon in his hand, and he didn’t care to so much as imagine about how Jorge was perceiving this exchange. But he was fading fast and they needed off this fucking train, so desperate times and all that.

 

“McCree…”

 

He sounded almost pacifying when he spoke, and McCree grunted to cut him off from whatever excuses he was about to make.

 

“Hanzo.”

 

That’s when it could be seen - looking back at Hanzo was something like the desert sun in McCree’s eyes. It was the look from the laundry room, the glint he’d seen in the argument with Morrison. It was something hot and unknown, a wild glaze in the eyes of a man whose face was beginning to slide into that same, lazy ( _ dangerous _ ) grin.

 

“D’ya trust me?”

 

The moisture seemed to be sucked right out of Hanzo’s lungs, the desert taking the words from his mouth. It took a moment, but Hanzo released his grip on McCree’s hand, shifting to retrieve the gun from where he had tucked it away. He had figured that Hanzo would hand him the gun, but the other’s words didn’t fail to shock him regardless.

 

“I trust you.”

 

He didn’t know how to pick that apart right now, didn’t know how to handle the way that the statement made his chest tighten and twist with something foreign. He turned his focus to the weight of the pistol in his hand, adjusting the grip with the sort of familiarity that came with a lifetime’s worth of dealing in death. He could feel something else familiar too - feel the heat of the desert despite the walls surrounding them, feel the ache in his bones like a skeleton left to bleach in the noon-day sun. Hanzo shifted to his other side, freeing up his shooting arm and steadying him, hand poised to open the door. 

 

He hummed when he was ready, and the door slid open, and the world slid away.

 

_ The hot breath on his neck was made silent by the screaming sky, but he still felt it. For the first time, he turned around and the stallion didn’t bolt, he didn’t wake screaming. It stood before him now, tall and wild, unafraid of the cacophony of thunder that threatened to shake apart the world at its seams. He felt it too - felt every breath, felt his heart beat in time with the mustang’s, felt the shift of the sand around them and the ache of the storm-torn sky. His hand clutched a fistful of mane and he was swinging his leg, feeling  _ whole  _ as he mounted the horse and held tight.  _

 

The door opened. 

 

Seven heads turned to see McCree, gun levelled and face split in the coyote’s grin.

 

Seven sets of eyes saw his irises bleed red.

 

There was a single shot, a single sound, and seven people crumpled to ground before the man. Beside him, Hanzo froze, his grip loosened by shock at the way that the others fell. He’d heard of this, from Hana back in the hangar - but he had dismissed it as exaggeration, as theatrics, as - not this. Not real. McCree strode forth with the wild grin never leaving his face, walking independent of Hanzo’s support to stand in the middle of the car. As he turned to face them, Hanzo swore he could feel coyote’s laughter, though no one seemed responsible for making the sound. 

 

He saw lingering red in McCree’s eye; not a metaphor, not a poetic rendition of fury or deadliness. Literal red, bleeding and sharp, the desert sun captured in the eyes of the man. It was the red of blood on sandstone, red like the devil, redder than anything he’d seen before in his life. He saw it now though - he saw the desert made mortal standing before him, a coyote with a gun in his hand, the wild horse, the detached judgement of the unforgiving nature of the wild. It all stood before him, wrapped in one man who stood among the crumpled dead with a lopsided grin and his own blood on his face.

 

And through the echoes of the swift judgement, the desert spoke through the mouth of the man it had made.

 

“Well? Justice ain’t gonna dispense itself?”

 

And then, McCree promptly collapsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did want to thank everyone who has been reading. I started writing this over a year ago, and I think that it's been a really valuable experience for me as a writer. I have never written something this planned out and lengthy, and knowing it's enjoyed goes a long ways. My new writing blog is on Tumblr, as I mentioned, and I cannot wait to continue this story. I have some short companion pieces I've been playing around with that may go up in between chapters as well. I'll try to keep yall updated through the aforementioned blog. Bless.


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